


Mikhail and Vacation Yuuri, Or How to Catfish the Love of Your Life

by beebers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Poor Life Choices, Pre-Canon, Romance, Vacation Fling, Vicchan (Yuri!!! on Ice) Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beebers/pseuds/beebers
Summary: When world-famous figure skater Victor Nikiforov plays hooky in America after winning his fourth World Championship, he doesn't expect to meet Yuuri Katsuki, a Japanese study abroad student who doesn't seem to realize just who Victor actually is. But Yuuri's got secrets of his own, and what starts as a simple vacation fling turns into something much more significant for each of them. From New York to Detroit to Sochi, follow these two lovebirds through mishaps, misunderstandings, melodrama...and maybe even true love.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 386
Kudos: 444





	1. New York, April 2015: Victor

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, this story was inspired by a Tony Hawk tweet. Unfortunately, neither the skateboards nor my favourite line made it into the final version, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. 
> 
> The story is complete and will update on Mondays.

Fuck, it’s crowded at the bar. Victor squeezes past a group who’ve already gotten their drinks and flags the bartender with a raised finger.

“I’ll have a vodka soda!” he shouts over the heavy bass thump, and the bartender tips his chin up at him as he scoops a tumbler off the stack.

“Nine dollars,” he says, sliding the drink to Victor.

Victor squints at his wallet, flipping through the stack of green bills in it. All the denominations look alike, and it doesn’t help that it’s so dark in the club. Victor hands what he hopes is a ten to the bartender, and the guy comes back with change, so he must have gotten it right. Victor leaves the cash on the bar top and turns back to look at the dancefloor. 

So many good-looking men. This isn’t his first time at a gay bar, but it’s his first time alone at one, and there’s something special about being by himself in a crowd. So many possibilities. Especially here, where no one knows him.

He takes a sip of his drink, the plastic cup damp in his hand. Maybe someone’s watching him right now. He knows he looks good--six weeks off of the world championships, he’s still in competition shape. When he raises his cup to his mouth, he deliberately flexes his bicep just in case someone’s paying attention.

Nothing. Ugh. He looks so good, too--hair gleaming, lips moisturized, shirt cut low. He eyes the crowd around him, but everyone seems to be here with friends and he hasn’t drunk enough yet to crash someone else’s party. Once he finishes his drink, he’ll head to the dancefloor. He doesn’t have four world championship medals because he can’t keep a beat.

He raises his drink to his mouth again, taking another sip, when someone stumbles into his side. His drink sloshes over his shirt.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry!” the guy exclaims. “Oh my god, your drink!”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Victor says, turning to face the guy and whoa. He’s cute. Asian, shorter than him but nice shoulders, big hands. Gorgeous eyes. Alone?

“Wow,” the guy says. “You look just like Victor Nikiforov—the figure skater?”

“Oh!” Victor says. “You know, I’ve heard that before.”

“Sorry, sorry!” the guy says. “I’m sure you get that a lot. It’s a compliment, I swear!”

Victor can’t help but laugh. The guy is so expressive—the dismay on his face when he thinks Victor might have taken offence, the way he tries to wave away his words with his hands.

“It’s okay, really! As long as it’s a compliment.”

“It is! But I didn’t mean—“

“And as long as you buy me a drink,” Victor adds, leaning in slightly to interrupt the man’s apology. He has his eyes fixed on the guy’s and he can see the moment the guy’s eyes widen and his pupils dilate when he realizes that Victor isn’t just being polite.

“Wow,” he says again, almost as if he can’t help it, and Victor laughs at his genuine appreciation.

“I’m Mikhail,” Victor says.

“Yuuri,” the guy says. 

He’s still staring, and Victor finds himself caught in the moment too, eyes locked on Yuuri’s as Yuuri, too, leans closer. 

“What are you drinking?” Yuuri asks, his voice low.

“Sex on the beach,” Victor murmurs, trying to think of something more seductive than the off-season meal plan-approved vodka soda he’d actually been drinking.

Except Yuuri just looks confused. “But your drink was clear, did you—oh. That was flirting. You were flirting.”

“I am flirting,” Victor agrees. “Do you want to dance instead?”

Yuuri laughs, a flush high on his cheeks. “I definitely need a drink first.” He steps in closer to the bar and turns so his hip brushes against Victor’s thigh.

Victor feels a thrill shiver through him—it’s been so long since he’s been able to go unrecognized, to just be a face in the crowd. He’s gotten a taste of it when he’s traveled for competitions, but even then he’s never been truly on his own; he’s been accompanied by his coach, by fellow competitors, by rinkmates and sponsor reps and always, always, by the weight of everyone else’s expectations. 

Here, in this neon-lit bar in Chelsea, he doesn’t have to be Victor Nikiforov, four-time world champion. Hardly anyone in America knows about figure skating and even fewer care about non-American figure skaters, so even when Yuuri had seemed to recognize him, it was easy to laugh it off and pretend to be someone else. Not a figure skater. Just a guy.

Yuuri turns back to him, two pink cocktails in hand. “Your sex on the beach,” he says, handing him the cup with the lime wedge and taking a gulp of his own drink as soon as Victor accepts it.

“Thank you,” Victor says. He takes a sip, not knowing what to expect, and is pleasantly surprised by the sweet-tart taste. “I’ve never had one of these before,” he admits to Yuuri.

“Really?” Yuuri says. His cup is half empty already. “They’re good.” He drains his cup and sets it on the bar. When the bartender catches his eye, he gestures for another and turns back to Victor. “Are you enjoying it? I can get you something else.”

“No, this is good. I like trying new things,” Victor says, taking another sip.

Yuuri looks like he doesn’t know what to say to that, but his drink arrives at that moment and he fumbles for his wallet to pay for it.

“To trying new things,” Victor says, tipping his glass to Yuuri once he has his cup in hand.

“To trying new things,” Yuuri repeats, looking a bit overwhelmed. He takes a large swig from his cup. The flush in his cheeks is deepening, but it only serves to make him look more attractive—bright eyes, slightly parted lips, those soft, downy cheeks. Victor wants to kiss him.

“Did you still want to dance?” Victor asks, gesturing at the dance floor.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “Are you done? Let me just finish this.” He tips his cup back to get the dregs of his drink, and the line of his throat as he swallows is so smooth that Victor feels a sudden pang. God, he wants to kiss him.

Victor takes a last sip of his drink to distract himself and grabs Yuuri's hand. “Let’s go!” He backs into the crowd, pulling Yuuri with him, and as they get further from the neon of the bar into the darkness of the dancefloor, he can feel the music judder through him.

This is what he came here for—a brief moment with a beautiful boy, dancing and flirting and who knows, maybe more. The crowd pushes them close to one another and Victor pulls Yuuri’s hand to his hip, encouraging him to hold on. He slides his own hand up Yuuri’s arm, over his elbow and past his shoulder to clasp the nape of his neck, tipping Yuuri’s head up slightly so he can make sure Yuuri’s eyes are on him.

Yuuri looks intense, focused, his eyes fixed on Victor as he leans into the beat, guiding Victor with the hand still gripping his hip. His other hand goes to Victor’s elbow, pulling his hand to Yuuri’s waist, and the two of them find themselves moving effortlessly to the driving beat.

“You’re a good dancer!” Victor says, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Yuuri smiles briefly in acknowledgement, and it seems to embolden him—he pulls Victor even closer, his fingertips hot on the bare skin of Victor’s arm. He nudges his knee between Victor’s legs, and Victor bends his knees slightly to make it easier for him, grinding into Yuuri’s solid thigh.

Yuuri’s fingers dig into Victor’s ass, holding him in place against Yuuri’s leg. They’re so close now, and this powerful anonymity makes it easy for Victor to dip his head to get even closer, his sweat-damp fringe swinging forward to brush Yuuri’s forehead. “You feel so good,” Victor sighs, and he deliberately grinds his bulge into Yuuri’s leg.

“So do you,” Yuuri says, and both his hands are on Victor’s hips now, holding him tight as he rocks his own hips to the beat. “Does this make up for spilling your drink?”

Victor laughs. “Not yet!”

“Good,” Yuuri says, and he does something complicated—a shimmy, a spin, and all of a sudden Victor’s facing away from him, staring out at the other dancers surrounding them. Yuuri’s hands pull his hips back against him, and Victor can feel Yuuri’s chest pressed to his back, the hard point of his chin digging into Victor’s shoulder. “Is this better?” he breathes into Victor’s ear, and Victor shivers in response.

Victor gropes for Yuuri’s left hand, pulling it from where it rests on his hip, and slides it very slowly up his body. He hopes Yuuri’s getting a good feel—it may be the off-season, but he’s still in great shape and the shirt he’s wearing is thin enough that in the right light, the lines of his abs are visible through it. He’d worn it on purpose.

Yuuri splays his hand over Victor’s chest, the other still on his hip, pulling him back against Yuuri. “It doesn’t feel like you’re interested in dancing anymore,” he says, but his hips are still rolling in time with the music and Victor can’t help but grind his ass back into him.

Victor cranes his neck to look at Yuuri. “Maybe not this kind of dancing,” he says.

The lights from the sound booth flash in Yuuri’s eyes and he moves his hand from Victor’s chest to his jaw, pulling him down to kiss him. Fuck, but it’s good—Yuuri’s mouth is open, sweet from the drinks he’d had, and his tongue slicks gently over Victor’s lips to coax them apart. Victor turns slightly to take some of the strain off his neck and he can feel the firm bulge of Yuuri’s package slide against his ass and the side of his hip as he moves. There’s something thrilling about being in this position—his body on display so anyone on the dancefloor can see how hard he is, but his face cradled in Yuuri’s hand so only Yuuri can see how affected he is by this slow, tender kiss.

Yuuri’s eyes blink open and he pulls back just enough to meet Victor’s eyes. “I want to see you again,” he murmurs. “Is that okay? I’m only in town for a couple more days, though.”

Victor turns fully to face him, which has the unfortunate side effect of interrupting the seductive roll of his hips, but this is important. “Yes!” he says. “Tomorrow? Here, put your number in my phone.” 

He drops to his hand to his pocket to grab his phone but remembers, just in time, that his phone case is a picture of his free skate costume. “Shit. I forgot, my battery is almost dead. Can I give you my number instead?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Yuuri says. It’s killed the mood a bit—they’re still on the dancefloor, but Yuuri’s dropped his eyes to get out his phone and Victor still needs to look for the note in his wallet with the phone number for his American SIM.

Victor takes Yuuri’s hand, and he looks up, startled. “Let’s go this way,” Victor suggests, nodding toward the back wall of the bar. There are fewer people there and the sweeping lights from the sound booth don’t reach that far. It still feels private, without the driving intensity of being on the dancefloor. 

There are a couple of bar height tables near the back, littered with empty cups, and Victor stops at one. “I really do want to see you tomorrow,” he says. “Do you…we could have brunch?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “I’d like that.” He pulls his phone out—puppies! His phone case has little blue puppies!—and opens a new contact before handing it to Victor.

“Mikhail,” Victor types in. “New York,” in place of a last name. He copies over the number from the card, telling Yuuri, “I just got this phone and I haven’t learned my new number yet. You’ll be my first contact!”

Yuuri half-smiles. “I’ll text you right now,” he says, and does. Victor feels the buzz of his text message alert immediately.

“You said you’re only in town for a few days?” Victor asks. Now that the spike of his knee-jerk attraction has mellowed a bit, he finds he actually wants to know who Yuuri is.

“Yeah, I have—summer classes start next week, so I have to be back before then,” Yuuri says. “What about you? Do you live here?”

“No, I’m visiting too. I’m off work right now so I’m just taking some time to travel.” Victor doesn’t actually have an itinerary for this trip. Fresh off his win at Worlds, he’d gone to Paris, then London and now New York. He’s not sure where he’ll go next.

“That sounds nice,” Yuuri says. 

“Yes, but it gets a bit lonely. I’m glad you asked to go out tomorrow.” Maybe Yuuri had only meant another night of dancing, but Victor doesn’t want to face another day like today had been, wandering aimlessly through the Met, hoping that one of the artworks would spark something in him that he could exploit for next season’s free program. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes,” Yuuri says, looking down. He seems to steel himself and looks back up. “I’m glad you did.”

“Oh!” It feels like his heart is being squeezed, he feels so overcome. Victor has a _date_ for tomorrow. With a handsome boy who can dance and who likes dogs and who seems to genuinely want to see Victor again. “Yuuri! I can’t wait for tomorrow!”

Yuuri’s mouth twitches up response. “I can’t believe you’re so excited about this. You must be tired of traveling alone!”

“That’s not what I meant!” Victor gasps, but Yuuri is giggling at him and the look on his face--bright and affectionate and so, so beautiful--is making it hard for Victor to truly take offense. 

“I don’t want to make you feel even more alone, but I should leave now if we’re going to meet up tomorrow,” Yuuri says. “I wasn’t planning to stay even this late.”

Victor pouts exaggeratedly, and it lights Yuuri up--he looks so fond and happy, even if he is laughing at Victor. “If you must,” Victor sighs.

“I must,” Yuuri says, but he leans in and kisses the side of Victor’s mouth--just the barest brush of lips.

“No, no,” Victor says, grabbing Yuuri’s shoulders. “If you’re leaving, I expect a proper goodbye.”

“Oh, well, if you have expectations,” Yuuri says, and he steps in, threading one hand through the hair at the nape of Victor’s neck and cupping the other over Victor’s cheek. His large, dark eyes pin Victor in place. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.” 

Victor’s eyes slide closed. No matter what happens--whether Yuuri simply holds him like this, his breath warm on Victor’s sensitized lips and his hands tender and soft on Victor’s face, or if he closes the gap between them to properly kiss Victor--Victor wants to hold on to this charged moment for as long as he can.

“Goodnight,” Yuuri whispers, kissing him deeply. It’s such a slow kiss--as if there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than holding Victor close, breathing with him. Victor presses back into the kiss, his lips parting involuntarily. It’s over too soon, and Yuuri strokes his hand over Victor’s neck before finally stepping back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Victor nods, dazed, and finds himself reaching for his mouth before he catches himself. “Yeah. I’ll text you.”

Yuuri smiles and turns away, dodging the few people at the edge of the dancefloor with the same grace he’d displayed while dancing earlier.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.


	2. New York, April 2015: Yuuri

Ugh. Why is it so early. Yuuri squints at his phone, bright in the dim room. He doesn’t have to get up yet, but the three Australian backpackers who are leaving today are loudly redistributing the contents of their packs to ensure that they don’t have to leave behind the beer they hadn’t finished the night before, and there’s no way he can sleep through it.

He brings his phone closer to his face but it’s no use, he can’t see anything without his glasses. He gropes for them, finally locating them hooked on the slats of the bunk bed above him, and turns back to his phone.

What the hell. Six messages? “Mikhail New York”?

Oh, shit. Oh fuck, Yuuri actually gave his number to some guy at the bar because he thought he looked like Victor Nikiforov. God, why is he _like_ this.

And now he’s supposed to go for brunch with him.

A warm shower and a glass of water later, Yuuri finds himself feeling much less fatalistic about his upcoming day. It had been fun, he remembers, dancing with Mikhail--he’d been fluid and responsive, an excellent dance partner, and he actually seemed to be into Yuuri.

And who knows, maybe brunch would be okay. He hadn’t made any plans for the day, figuring he’d want to recover from going out the night before--maybe find a gym and get a workout in, or go for a walk in Central Park (Phichit had been content with just snapping selfies in front of the gate before hurrying on to their next stop, but now that Yuuri’s on his own, he could actually explore all the not-so-photogenic parts of the city that Phichit hadn’t wanted to waste time on).

So okay. Brunch.

Yuuri wonders briefly if he should try to dress up for it. Mikhail had been pretty flirty, and maybe he intended this as a proper date, but honestly, Yuuri’s down to only a couple of clean shirts and doesn’t want to go looking for a laundromat when he’s flying home in two days, so he tugs on a black henley and zips his hoodie over it.

Hair brushed, but not gelled like last night. Glasses on. He wants to actually see the guy that tipsy, half-blind Yuuri had decided looked enough like Victor Nikiforov to follow onto the dancefloor. Phone, wallet. Ready to go.

Yuuri gets to the cafe before Mikhail and grabs a table with a view of the entrance, sending Mikhail a text to let him know. So far he’s been carried along by his innate politeness and sense of social obligation, but now that he has a moment to himself, his worries come crowding back.

Is this really a good idea? He doesn’t know anything about this guy. What if he’s a murderer? What if he’s a fuckboy? What if he doesn’t actually look anything like Victor Nikiforov?

Yuuri opens up the messaging app on his phone again. “If I die here today, bury me with my poster collection,” he sends Phichit.

As expected, Phichit is online and responds immediately. “nooooo don’t die, i can’t afford rent alone”

“seriously though are you dying?”

“is it contagious”

“am i dying”

“you have to stay alive, the hamsters can’t lose both of us at once”

“Yuuri do it for them”

“I’m not dying,” Yuuri replies. “But I met a guy last night and we’re supposed to be going for brunch today”

“YUURI”

“YOU MET A GUY”

“I CAN DIE HAPPY NOW”

  
The messages arrive in quick succession and Yuuri can’t help but smile at his phone.

“Who knows, he was supposed to be here by now so maybe I’m being stood up,” Yuuri sends back.

“how dare he”

“he doesn’t deserve your time”

“the hamsters agree”

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri looks up, startled, and oh my god. This guy has to be Victor Nikiforov’s long-lost twin. No other explanation. He’s even styled his hair the same way, swooping down over his left eye.

“Mikhail,” Yuuri stammers. “Hi.”

“I wasn’t sure if it was you! You’re wearing glasses!” Mikhail exclaims, pulling his chair out. The table is so small that his knees bump against Yuuri’s when he sits down.

Oh god, Yuuri’s glasses. His hair. His close-enough-to-passing-the-sniff-test shirt. Yuuri is not ready for this date at all.

“Yeah, uh, I usually wear glasses. I just didn’t wear them yesterday.”

“They look good! You look good!” How is Mikhail still so cheerful when faced with a bridge troll for a date?

“Thanks. Uh, you look good too. The hair, it’s very...you’re really playing up your resemblance to Victor Nikiforov.”

“Huh?” Oh god, he’s even cute when he’s confused.

“I mean, sorry, I know I said you look like him last night, but you didn’t have to...you know.” Yuuri gestures to his face. “You’re already gorgeous.”

Mikhail shakes his head, and his hair flops into his eye, and fuck it, Yuuri’s already stuck his tongue down his throat, touching his hair can’t be off-limits, right? He reaches out to comb Mikhail’s bangs back from his face.

His eyes are very wide and very blue, staring at Yuuri as he brushes his hair back.

“Is this...okay?” Yuuri asks belatedly. His hand is still in Mikhail’s hair.

Mikhail nods silently, still looking stunned.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, dropping his hand. Mikhail’s bangs stay in place, swept back to the crown of his head. “You just...you look really good. You don’t need to try to look like anyone else.”

“Thank you,” Mikhail says. He drops his eyes to the table, a faint flush across his cheekbones.

“Um. Do you want to order? We have to go up to the counter,” Yuuri says.

“Sure.” Mikhail stands up and waits for Yuuri to join him.

Once they’ve ordered, they return to their table with the placard denoting their order number. Mikhail still hasn’t fixed his hair, and it’s a little easier to meet his eyes when he doesn’t look so overwhelmingly like the guy Yuuri’s looked up to for years.

“So you said you’re traveling,” Yuuri says. “Where’s home?”

“Ah, I live in London right now. But I’m from Russia originally,” and okay. That makes sense, in a vaguely racist “all Russians look alike” way.

“London! How long are you here for?”

“I don’t actually know!” Mikhail looks like he’s relaxing finally, the smile back on his face. “I don’t have a plan at all. What about you?”

“My flight leaves on Sunday,” he says. “My roommate went home for the summer and his flight connected through here, so we decided to make a trip out of it since neither of us had ever been to New York before.”

“That’s such a good idea!” Mikhail says. “He’s not still in town, is he? Did you ditch him for the day?”

“Oh no, he’d never let me!” Yuuri says. “His flight was yesterday morning. I was just texting him before you arrived, actually--he’s in Bangkok, but his sleep schedule is pretty messed up because of the time change.”

“So you’re on your own this weekend, just like me!”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Yuuri says. “Do you have plans for the weekend?”

“Hmm, well, today, I have a date with a very handsome guy. So far it’s going well, I think!” and then he _winks_ , as if Yuuri hasn’t already been struck dead by his words.

Fortunately, the waiter interrupts them with their food before Yuuri has to think of something suave in response, and the two of them start eating.

“What did you want to do for your last few days in the city?” Mikhail asks.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says. “I saw all the major sights with my roommate, so I planned to use these days to relax. I thought maybe I’d go to Central Park today.”

“Oh! Do you think they have a dog park there?” Mikhail asks.

“Probably,” Yuuri says. “Do you have a dog?”

“I do! But not here, she’s back home.” Mikhail sighs. “I miss her. Being away from her is the worst part about traveling.”

“I get it,” Yuuri says. “My dog is still with my parents since I couldn’t bring him to school with me.”

“And you’re taking summer classes too! You must miss him so much!”

And it’s stupid, but it’s just so _nice_ for someone to acknowledge how much it sucks being away from his dog. Yuuri’s rationalized it to himself a million times--Vicchan’s getting old and it wouldn’t be fair to force him to travel; having to find housing for himself _and_ a dog would be a nightmare; his parents love Vicchan too and would miss him if Yuuri had taken him--but still. He misses his dog.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, his voice wobbly. Fuck, he usually doesn’t let himself think about how _much_ he misses him. “Sorry. He’s such a good boy and I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Mikhail looks panicked. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to bring it up! We don’t have to go to the dog park, I just thought it would be fun.”

“Uh,” Yuuri says. “Were we going to go to the dog park?”

“Oh. Well.” Mikhail looks like he doesn’t know what to say. “I just thought, if you’re going to the park, maybe I could go with you. We don’t have to look at dogs.”

It doesn’t make any sense that this guy wants to spend the rest of his day with Yuuri, but he’s not going to question it. “I think I would like to look at dogs, though,” Yuuri says. “Do you have any pictures of yours?”

“Yes!” Mikhail exclaims, reaching for his phone. “No! I forgot, this is a new phone so I don’t have any pictures on it yet.”

“That’s okay. Would you like to see mine?”

“Yuuri! Yes! I would love to see your dog!” His whole face lights up, and when he beams like that, the dip in his upper lip makes his smile look a bit like a heart.

It’s endearing how enthusiastic he is--you’d think someone so beautiful would be cooler, but honestly, Mikhail’s a bit of a dork. It makes Yuuri feel a bit less bad about his whole hungover-needs-to-do-laundry aesthetic.

He pulls out his phone and flips to the album of photos that his family has sent him of Vicchan. He resolves not to mention his dog’s name to Mikhail--he’s already talked about Victor Nikiforov far too much already, and he doesn’t want Mikhail to think that the resemblance is the only reason Yuuri wants to hang out with him.

“This one’s my favourite,” Yuuri says, opening a photo of Vicchan on two legs, puppy-dog eyes fixed beseechingly on a piece of meat offscreen.

“Oh! What a good dog!” Mikhail exclaims. “Does he do tricks? He looks like he does tricks.”

“When he wants to. But we never tried to get him to do much more than shake hands and heel.”

“My...my Mimi is the same way. A mind of her own! But she always seems to know what I need from her,” Mikhail says.

“She sounds like a good dog,” Yuuri says.

“Such a good dog!”

It’s nice to talk with someone so open about his feelings; Yuuri’s never been one to hide his passions, and it had been jarring coming to America, where most of the other figure skaters he met seemed to think that expressing admiration for anything--another skater’s artistry, a rinkmate’s skill--somehow diminished their own performance.

It was part of why he got on so well with Phichit, maybe--the two of them had grown up skating in environments where there weren’t many other skaters to take up their coaches’ time, so neither of them were used to thinking they had to compete with their own rinkmates.

“All done?” Yuuri asks, once it looks like Mikhail has stopped eating.

“Yes, I don’t think I can eat anymore,” Mikhail says. “We should walk to the park. It’ll help us work off some of this food!”

“It’s a long way,” Yuuri warns, but Mikhail waves him off and bounces to his feet.

The weather is beautiful, one of the benefits of New York in late April, and the two of them find that conversation flows easily as they walk.

“Detroit! Yuuri, it’s supposed to be so dangerous. Are you sure you’re safe?”

“It’s not like the university is in the inner city!” Yuuri protests. “And it’s a lot better than people make it out to be. It’s been gentrifying for a while.”

“Do you think it’s worth visiting?” Mikhail asks, leaning in to bump Yuuri’s shoulder with his as they walk.

“I mean, maybe? If you’re interested in cars or music, there are a lot of important places to see.” Yuuri glances at Mikhail, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed that they’re basically brushing arms as they walk now.

“Well, I don’t have any plans for after New York. Maybe I can come visit!” Mikhail says brightly, still looking ahead.

“Ha, sure, if you really want to,” Yuuri says. “But it’s not that exciting.”

“Hmm, I’ll look you up if I’m out there,” Mikhail says, and fortunately that’s the end of that conversation.

Unfortunately, once they get to the park, they discover that dogs are only allowed off-leash during certain hours.

“I’m so, so sorry!” Yuuri says. “I dragged you all this way!” How could he have not checked? It would have been so easy to google before they even left the cafe. “We’ll find a dog park! There has to be one close by.”

“Yuuri, no, don’t worry about it,” Mikhail says. “We’re here already, so let’s look around a bit.”

“No, you wanted to see dogs,” Yuuri says, on his phone already. “There’s a dog run near the river. We can go there right now!”

“Yuuri!” Mikhail’s voice is tight. “I don’t want to go to a dog run. Let’s stay and explore the park.”

Fuck. Yuuri feels terrible. The two of them walk silently through the park, their easy flow from earlier gone. Why does Mikhail even want to be here? Yuuri had expected that the novelty of seeing the dogs would keep Mikhail entertained while Yuuri came up with something more exciting to do, but this, just the two of them walking slowly along the path deeper into the park, can’t be fun for him at all.

“It’s nice here,” Mikhail says. “It’s so different from the rest of the city.”

“I guess so,” Yuuri says. It is peaceful. There aren’t very many people in the park on a weekday--a jogger in the distance, already disappearing as the path turns, an elderly couple on one of the benches, two women with strollers.

“You know, I don’t get to slow down like this usually,” Mikhail admits. “I don’t let myself.”

Yuuri glances at him. He’d already guessed that Mikhail was well off, given how casually he had admitted to taking off for a vacation of indeterminate length, but he feels embarrassed when he realizes that he hadn’t thought Mikhail actually _worked_ for his money.

“Do you work a lot, then?”

“Yes. This is the first vacation I’ve had--proper vacation, I mean, not just a weekend--in years.”

Yuuri kind of gets that. He’s been in school for four years now, but because of his competition and training schedule, he hasn’t ever been able to take a full course load--hence the summer classes and the fifth year he’d be starting in September. But when he’s not in school, he gets to skate, which more than makes up for the beach vacations and road trips he’s missed out on.

“You said you’re not working right now, though,” Yuuri says.

“Well, it’s a slow time right now for me. And my...my boss told me I needed to take a break.” Mikhail shrugs. “I don’t know if I would have gone without being forced, if I’m being honest.”

Mikhail pauses on the path and looks at Yuuri. “Today has been nice. Just...not planning anything. Not knowing what comes next. My life is so scheduled and regimented…and it needs to be! I have achieved a lot of success so far, but it’s come at a price.”

“I think I understand,” Yuuri says. He’s made his own sacrifices for his skating career--leaving his home and his family behind, learning to live in a country that baffles him with its foreignness, fighting through pain and fatigue to improve his performances.

“Has it been worth it, do you think?” Mikhail’s tone is light, but his face looks serious, his brows lowered.

“I...maybe,” Yuuri says. “I haven’t achieved the success I’ve been aiming for yet, but when I do, I believe it will be worth it.” When Mikhail’s face doesn’t clear, he asks, “What about you? Has it been worth it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve let myself be defined by my success for a very long time. I don’t know who I’d be without it.” He passes his hand over his hair, sweeping his bangs back again. “But...well, this is a nice start.”


	3. New York, April 2015: Victor

This whole day has been a revelation. Who knew it could be so great to not be Victor Nikiforov?

Victor sneaks a glance at Yuuri, walking next to him on the path. They’ve spent hours wandering the park already--Yuuri had suggested they find one of the visitor centers and look up what was worth seeing in the park, and the points of interest that the woman at the desk had circled on a map for them had taken them all over the park.

Victor’s actually starting to get a bit hungry.

“Do you want to go get dinner?” Victor asks. “It’s already after six.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling a bit hungry,” Yuuri agrees. “But do you mind if we find a grocery store? I didn’t budget a lot for this trip. We can get some nice bread and cheese and come back here to sit on the grass.”

“Oh! Like a picnic!” They haven’t even held hands yet and this is already the most romantic date Victor has ever been on.

Yuuri laughs, looking up from his phone. “There’s a place not too far from here--let’s see what they have.”

The shop Yuuri guides them to has a huge deli section, with salads-to-go and sandwiches made to order, but Yuuri walks them right past the prepared food to grab a baguette, a small wheel of brie, and a package of sliced ham. “We probably won’t even finish this,” he says, “but is there anything specific that you wanted?”

“Hmm,” Victor says. He spares a thought for his largely abandoned meal plan. “Maybe a vegetable?”

“You’re so responsible,” Yuuri says. The produce section yields a plastic bag of baby carrots, and before they leave, Yuuri swipes some plastic cutlery from the salad bar.

Back at the park, they don’t have to walk far to find a clear spot on the grass. The temperature’s dropped, so there aren’t a lot of people still out.

“This was such a good idea, Yuuri!” Victor enthuses, layering sliced ham on a chunk of baguette. “I would never have thought of this.”

“Clearly you’ve never been a starving student,” Yuuri says.

“I haven’t!” Victor says. After secondary school, Victor had abandoned formal education altogether in favor of skating. “Do you do this a lot, then?”

“Not eating in restaurants? All the time,” he says. “But this kind of last-minute picnic, no.”

“You must be a good cook,” Victor says. He flops back onto the grass, staring up at the darkening sky. The sun sets faster here than he’s used to from back home, and they’ve lingered for a while.

“There are a few things I can make well,” Yuuri admits. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep out here.”

“I’m not tired,” Victor says, but he betrays himself with a yawn.

Yuuri laughs. “We’ve done a lot today.”

"Not a lot,” Victor says, flailing his hand until he finds Yuuri’s knee. He squeezes it. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Yuuri says. He cups his hand over Victor’s, pressing it to his leg.

Victor turns his hand under Yuuri’s and interlaces their fingers. It’s easier when he’s not looking at Yuuri.

“Did you...do you want to go somewhere else?” Yuuri asks.

“Not yet,” Victor says. “Come closer.” He tugs on their joined hands, and Yuuri rolls to his knees, leaning over Victor.

Victor takes a moment just to look. Last night, in a fitted shirt with his hair slicked back, Yuuri had been handsome, but like this, in his glasses and with his unruly hair, he’s devastating. Like a piece of artwork stepping down off a plinth. Victor brings their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s knuckles.

“Thank you for today,” he says. “This was more than I’d hoped for.”

“I’m glad,” Yuuri says. “I don’t know why…” but he trails off, looking down at Victor.

He brings his other hand up to brush Victor’s hair back again, and this is the thing that breaks Victor.

“Yuuri,” he groans. “Please, will you come closer?” He reaches up with the hand that’s not holding Yuuri’s, trailing his fingers along the curve of Yuuri’s cheek.

“Mikhail,” Yuuri whispers, leaning down, his eyes deep and intent in their focus on Victor. He pauses for a moment, his mouth mere millimeters from Victor’s, before something in him seems to relax and he closes the distance between them, his eyes sliding shut.

It’s the tenderest kiss, just Yuuri’s soft lips on his, and Victor feels buoyant--like he’d just float on up to space if it weren’t for this beautiful boy bending over him, holding him in place with such careful hands. Victor squeezes Yuuri’s hand in his and breathes into the kiss--the scents of dirt and grass and Yuuri himself, salty ham and warm bread and his own clean, earthy scent.

Yuuri sighs into the kiss and shifts position slightly, smoothing his palm over Victor’s hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

Victor flinches, and Yuuri--wonderful Yuuri--pulls back. “Was that okay? I don’t...you’re very handsome, I didn’t mean to imply anything!”

“No, Yuuri, you didn’t do anything wrong!” Fuck, why can’t he just accept a compliment. No one else would have a problem with being called beautiful.

“Are you sure?” Yuuri looks wary, sitting back on his heels. The hand that was in Victor’s hair hovers beside his ear.

This is probably a conversation they should have sitting up. Victor sighs and pulls himself upright with the hand that’s still holding Yuuri’s. “I’m sorry. I’m just...I’m tired of being beautiful. It’s stupid, I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“...but you’re more than your beauty,” Yuuri finishes for him.

“Am I?” Victor doesn’t mean to sound so bitter.

Yuuri squeezes Victor’s hands. “You...Mikhail, you should know, it takes a lot for me to befriend someone.” He ducks his head so he doesn’t look Victor in the eye. “It’s so hard to let people in, but with you, it’s been so easy. You meet me where I am and never ask more than I’m able to give.”

“Yuuri, I--” Victor starts to say, and Yuuri looks up sharply, cutting him off.

“You’ve been so _kind_ , this whole day, and you can’t tell me that you wanted to spend the day wandering through a park with someone you barely know.” He shakes Victor’s hands to emphasize what he’s saying. “You’ve been been so ready to go along with every dumb idea I’ve had today, no matter what. Mikhail, your face is beautiful, but so is your _heart_.”

Yuuri’s holding his hands so tightly it almost hurts. It’s incredible--he’s so intense and passionate, and Victor makes a noise low in his throat before yanking Yuuri to him with their joined hands and covering his mouth with his own.

This kiss is clumsy, desperate, but so heartfelt--Victor can’t think of any way to express how grateful he is to Yuuri but to kiss him and kiss him.

Yuuri gasps and Victor uses his open mouth to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue past Yuuri’s lips. He pushes even further into Yuuri, nudging him backward without letting go of his hands, and Yuuri goes along with it so easily, kissing Victor back and letting himself sink into the grass.

Victor breaks the kiss long enough to gasp, “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?” but Yuuri doesn’t respond in words, just wraps his arms around Victor’s shoulders to haul him down with him.

This is ridiculous, kissing in the grass like teenagers, but when Victor had actually been a teenager, he’d never had the chance to do anything like this. Maybe if he’d known how wonderful it was, he’d have chosen it over skating. He giggles into the kiss. “Yuuri! We can’t do this here!”

“Don’t talk,” Yuuri says. “Talking means you’re not kissing,” but he drops his head back to look Victor in the eye. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks.

“I’m staying uptown. We could get a cab?”

“Sure. Um.” Yuuri’s face flushes red as he asks, “Uh. Do we need to stop somewhere? At a drugstore?”

 _Oh._ Victor hadn’t thought that far yet, but he knows he didn’t pack condoms before departing on his trip. “Um. Probably, yeah.” He’s blushing, Yuuri’s blushing, and then he’s giggling again as he and Yuuri pull themselves upright.

Victor orders an Uber as he and Yuuri walk back to the park entrance.

“Can I split the cost with you?” Yuuri asks.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask the driver to stop at a drugstore and you can go in and get the stuff while I wait in the car. That’ll cover it.”

Yuuri looks mortified--his cheeks and nose are bright red--but he nods decisively and doesn’t say anything more.

When they get into the car, Victor offers the driver cash to stop at an all-night drug store on their way, and the driver pulls up outside a brightly lit shop shortly after leaving the park.

Yuuri disappears into the store, and now that Victor’s giddiness has passed, he finds himself...not scared, exactly, but maybe a little nervous. His fame has affected all parts of his life so far, and he’s always felt a little like he’s been on stage during all his previous sexual encounters. He’s not sure what it’ll be like baring himself to someone without the shield of “Russia’s champion” to hide behind.

He desperately wishes he had his dog with him. She’s never made him feel like he needs to be anything other than exactly who he is, and he needs the assurance that who he is is enough right now.

Yuuri returns to the car, a plastic bag in one hand. The driver continues on to Victor’s Airbnb. Neither of them says anything.

Victor had booked an entire apartment for himself, a compact one-bedroom with a view of the city that he hasn’t taken much time to appreciate. Yuuri doesn’t meet his eyes as they exit the car, and Victor leads them to the elevator and then to the suite with Yuuri following behind him.

Please don’t let him have changed his mind, Victor thinks. Please don’t let him realize there isn’t anything substantial under the glamor of the living legend.

He unlocks the door and again wishes he’d brought Makkachin with him--she’s always so happy to see him whenever he gets home. And everyone loves her, so surely Yuuri would want to stick around so he could spend time with her.

He swings the door open, and as he reaches for the light switch, Yuuri crowds up against him, pushing the door shut behind him.

“Do you know how hard it’s been to keep my hands off you?” he growls, pressing Victor into the wall. “You feel so good.”

Victor gasps and Yuuri pulls him down into a heated kiss. It’s dizzying—the whiplash moment of realizing that Yuuri actually does want him, that he’s been _holding back_ , that he wants this just as much as Victor does. “Yuuri,” he moans.

“Mikhail,” Yuuri says. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Victor agrees. “Um. This way.” He toes off his shoes, still holding onto Yuuri, and keeps hold of his hand as he pulls him to the bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished, just a bed and a pair of nightstands, but the windows covering one wall let in the lights from the city below them. They limn Yuuri’s face, reflecting in his eyes, wide open as he watches Victor.

Victor tugs his shirt over his head. In the dark, it’s easier to pretend to be someone else--someone ordinary, someone who does this all the time.

“Wait,” Yuuri says. “I want to do that.” He steps in close to Victor and sweeps his hands down Victor’s sides--over his ribs, and then back up his spine. His hands feel smooth and hot on Victor’s bare skin, and Victor barely represses a shiver.

“Is that...are you ticklish?” Yuuri murmurs.

“No,” Victor replies, just as quietly. “It feels good. But I think you’re overdressed.” He nudges the zipper of Yuuri’s hoodie down a notch. “Hmm?”

Yuuri leans up and kisses him. “All yours,” and he’s smiling into the kiss and the invitation.

Victor can’t help but grin back as he unzips the hoodie and pushes it down off Yuuri’s shoulders. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt under it, and Victor slips his hands up under the hem, pulling it up as he goes.

Yuuri doesn’t have the muscle definition that Victor does, but he has a nice, trim build--a compact waist widening to sturdy shoulders, smooth, hairless pecs, a strong back. “You look good,” Victor tells him. “Fit.”

“Look who’s talking,” Yuuri says. His hands drop further to grab Victor’s ass over his jeans. “This feels very nice.”

“It looks just as good,” Victor teases. “Would you like to see?”

Yuuri laughs. “Sure. Give me a show.”

And it’s absurd, but it doesn’t feel like a dig at him. Yuuri’s words are a friendly overture, not a command nor a plea, and he can’t remember the last time someone has treated him as an equal like this.

Victor winks at Yuuri and steps back a few paces. There’s nothing he wants more in this moment than to show off for Yuuri--his body reflects the years he’s dedicated to his sport, and while his single-minded pursuit of perfection has had its downsides, it has benefited him in certain ways too.

“You can’t touch,” Victor warns him, unbuckling his belt. He pops the button on his jeans. “Just be patient.”

“This is worth waiting for,” Yuuri replies. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, hands tucked under his thighs with the plastic bag bunched up beside him.

“Good boy,” Victor says. Yuuri makes a face at that, and Victor laughs. “Sorry, you’re not a dog.”

He folds back the waistband of his jeans, teasing the view of his briefs. He’s hard--has been since that surprise kiss against the living room wall, his brain struggling to catch up with what his body had already realized. He dips two fingers behind the still-fastened zipper, stroking them along the outline of his cock, and with his other hand, nudges the zipper down, tooth by tooth.

The extra space comes as a relief. He’s so hard, his cock an obvious tent in his skimpy underwear. Yuuri looks rapt, his lips parted in a gasp and his eyes fixed on Victor’s hands.

He cups one hand over his cock, massaging it lightly. He doesn’t want to come like this, but the pressure feels good. He slips his other hand, fingers flat, into his jeans, easing them down his thighs. They sag with the weight of his belt, but they’re too fitted to slide off easily, and he feels a bit silly as he glances back up at Yuuri. “Um. Hold on.”

He has to shimmy his hips to get them off, but once they’re past the swell of his quads they come off easily. When he looks back up, Yuuri’s watching him, his eyes fond.

He feels a sudden surge of gratitude to “Mikhail New York”, this ordinary guy who just wriggles his way out of his jeans when he strips. No careful posing, no considering the lines of his body or the arch of his spine, just clumsy, instinctual movement met with unquestioning acceptance from this boy he likes so much. It’s something that he never even knew he wanted.

He smooths his hands over the front of his thighs. “What do you think?”

Yuuri shakes his head, still smiling. “As if you don’t know. Come here?”

He holds his hand out and Victor goes gladly, stumbling forward to straddle Yuuri’s lap. Yuuri’s just as hard as Victor is, and Victor “accidentally” grinds against Yuuri’s cock as he settles.

“Fuck,” Yuuri says, grabbing Victor’s waist and squeezing. He tips his face up to stare at Victor, his eyes reflecting the ambient light from the windows. “You’re incredible.”

Victor bends to kiss him. “No, you’re incredible,” Victor says. “This whole day has been incredible.”

Yuuri slips his fingers under the waist of Victor’s briefs, the tips of them massaging gently at the top of Victor’s buttocks. “Can I?” he asks, and Victor rises to his knees, bracing his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, to give Yuuri the clearance to tug his underwear down. Yuuri’s hand carefully slides the waistband over the head of Victor’s cock, baring it to the room. He rubs his thumb over the head, sliding easily in the precum Victor’s leaking. “Even your cock is beautiful.”

Victor snorts a laugh at this and buries his face in Yuuri’s neck to muffle it. “Sorry,” he says, into Yuuri’s throat.

Yuuri ducks his head to watch his hand move on Victor’s cock. “You don’t appreciate it because you’re used to it,” he says. “But trust me, this is an objectively beautiful cock.”

Victor turns his head to mouth at Yuuri’s ear. “I think I need something to compare it to,” he says, sliding his hands down Yuuri’s sides to his jeans.

The bulge of Yuuri’s cock looms behind his fly and Victor suddenly, desperately, wants to see what it looks like.

“Can you please take these off?” he begs, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “I want to see you.”

Yuuri slips his hands under Victor’s, making quick work of the button and zipper holding his jeans closed. “You’ll have to get off if you want to see more,” he says.

Victor huffs out a frustrated breath and flops on top of Yuuri, pushing him backwards into the bed and savoring the heat of his bare chest against Victor’s. He shoves at Yuuri’s pants, his own hips raised to give himself room, and manages to work them down to Yuuri’s knees.

“This is so inefficient,” he complains, pulling his own underwear down roughly.

Yuuri laughs and drags his hands up Victor’s back, his palms radiating warmth. “You said to be patient, remember?”

“Yes, but that was for _you_ ,” Victor says. He rolls onto his back, pulling Yuuri on top of him, and grabs Yuuri’s ass to keep him close. He likes that Yuuri’s a bit smaller than him. It means he fits perfectly against Victor, his mouth just at Victor’s throat.

From on top of Victor, Yuuri kicks his jeans and underwear off, hugging Victor tightly to keep from losing his balance.

“Finally,” he says. He rocks his hips, and his cock slides easily against Victor’s.

“I wanted you to fuck me, but I don’t think I can wait,” Victor says. He wraps his hand around both their cocks. “Do you--”

“Fuck, whatever you want. This is good. This is amazing,” Yuuri says. He thrusts his hips against Victor, his hands tight on Victor’s sides.

Victor pulls on their cocks together and Yuuri groans, his breath huffing damply on Victor’s neck.

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “Harder.” He fumbles one hand down to meet Victor’s, and together the two of them set a rapid pace.

Victor feels wrapped up in the moment--Yuuri’s slim, hot body blanketing him, one hand still clamped tight to Victor’s waist and his other working over their cocks with Victor. He can feel Yuuri’s teeth and tongue where his mouth is pressed to his neck, rough and clumsy as he breathes into Victor’s skin.

“I’m not going to last,” Victor gasps.

“Go ahead,” Yuuri says. “I want to see you,” and that’s all he needs, just those words and he’s finally, finally coming.

When he comes back to himself, he can feel Yuuri straining against him, the tight muscles of his forearm as he jacks himself. Yuuri’s head is tucked so Victor can’t see his expression, but the tension in his shoulders and back give away his focus.

“Yeah,” Victor murmurs. “Come on, I want to see you come. You’re gorgeous, look at you, you feel so good. Next time I’m going to suck you off, I want to taste your cock so badly. And you still have to fuck me--I want to feel that gorgeous cock inside me--” and then Yuuri’s coming, a long, drawn-out gasp as his cock spurts on Victor’s belly.

He slumps onto Victor’s chest, letting Victor take his whole weight and smearing his cum and Victor’s over the both of them.

“Clean-up?” Victor eventually asks, when Yuuri shows no sign of moving.

“Yeah,” Yuuri mumbles. “Five minutes.”

Victor presses a kiss to Yuuri’s sweat-damp hair. “Come on. We can share a shower.”

Yuuri makes a pleased hum. “Yeah, okay.” He pushes himself up, bracing himself on Victor’s shoulders, and slides over until he’s sitting on the bed beside Victor. He looks down at Victor and brushes his hair away from his face again.

Victor smiles up at him, and he knows he’s making that ridiculous grin that splits his whole face and makes his mouth go wonky. He can’t help it--he’s just so happy.

Yuuri smiles back at him and stands up. “This was your idea, so come on.”

The shower is actually fairly perfunctory once they get there. For all their flirting, they’ve both had a long day, and besides a few clumsy kisses, neither of them feels up for anything too energetic.

By unspoken agreement, they come back to the bedroom together and Victor pulls back the covers. “Stay? You can go back in the morning, but it’s late now.”

“Sure,” Yuuri agrees. “Can I borrow a shirt to sleep in?”

Victor makes a face at the idea of Yuuri covering up, but obliges, pulling out one of the plain shirts he exercises in. Yuuri pulls his underwear on, but Victor gets into bed naked.

“Do you need me to set an alarm?” Victor asks, and Yuuri rolls onto his side to face him.

“Not for me. I don’t have anything on tomorrow. But if you need me out, let me know.”

Victor smiles and reaches for Yuuri’s hand. “You can stay forever,” and he winks so Yuuri knows it’s a joke but also, you know, so Yuuri knows that if he wanted to, that would be okay too.


	4. New York, April 2015: Yuuri

Holy shit, Yuuri’s done a lot of regrettable things in his life, but waking up in a stranger’s bed hasn’t ever been one of them before. The strangest part is how comfortable he feels, wrapped up in Mikhail’s blankets and still wearing his shirt. Like, maybe this isn’t actually something to regret?

“Yuuri!” Mikhail sings through the open bathroom door. “You can use my toothbrush if you want!”

Whoa. Yuuri would probably regret that. But he definitely wants to kiss Mikhail again and there’s no way he’s going to do it without brushing his teeth first, so maybe he actually is going to use a stranger’s toothbrush? After spending the night in his bed?

He presses his hands to his face to hide his grin. He’s going to kiss Mikhail again. What even is this. Where did this smooth, confident version of himself come from?

“Does this place have a coffee maker?” Yuuri calls out to Mikhail.

“I don’t know!” Mikhail pops his head into the bedroom, shaving cream still on half his face. “But there’s a great place across the street. We can get breakfast!”

What a ridiculous, exuberant grin. How is this guy _real_?

“That sounds good,” Yuuri says, finally getting out of bed. He pulls off the shirt he slept in--it still smells faintly of Mikhail, that indefinable blend of laundry detergent, grooming products, and human musk. Is it creepy to want to keep the shirt? Just, you know, asking for a friend.

He makes a face when he picks his own clothes off the floor. His shirt hadn’t been that clean even before he spent an entire day walking through the city, and now that he has to redress in his sweaty clothes from the day before, Mikhail is totally going to realize what a garbage heap he is. Ugh. He needs to get back to the hostel so he can get a change of clothes.

“Hey, Mikhail,” Yuuri says. “Do you mind if I meet you for breakfast? I’ve got to change clothes before I go anywhere.”

“Do you want to borrow something from me?” Mikhail asks. He comes out of the bathroom, clean-shaven and completely naked. Holy fuck. Nothing to regret at _all_.

Mikhail wanders into the closet and rummages around a bit before coming out with a stack of clothes. “This should fit,” he says, handing Yuuri a pair of underwear. “And you can wear the shirt I gave you last night.”

Sharing underwear? That...Yuuri might regret that.

“Uh. Do you mind if I go get my stuff anyway?”

“Oh! Do you want to bring it back here?” Mikhail asks. “What time is your flight tomorrow? You can stay here tonight!” He sets down the clothes he’s carrying, apparently not in a hurry to get dressed.

Yuuri can’t be held responsible for any decisions he makes under the influence of a beautiful naked man. That has to be a rule, right? “Sure,” he says faintly. “But I have to check out before 11 or they’ll charge me for another night.”

“Let’s go get your things! Then we can go for breakfast!” Mikhail finally, finally pulls on his underwear, tucking his frankly perfect cock away.

Yuuri feels like he can breathe again. “Yeah. Okay.” He pulls his jeans on over his day-old underwear but puts on Mikhail’s t-shirt instead of his gross shirt. It can’t be creepy if Mikhail said he could, after all.

Mikhail gets dressed quickly and calls an Uber to take them to the hostel, and Yuuri gives in and brushes his teeth with Mikhail’s toothbrush while they wait. He’s fine with dressing like a slob--god knows he’s had high-anxiety weeks where laundry has been the last thing on his mind--but he’s still hopeful he’ll get to kiss Mikhail again soon.

When they get to the hostel, Mikhail insists on accompanying Yuuri in, and Yuuri steels himself for his commentary. How much does it cost to book an entire apartment to yourself for an indefinite stay? Mikhail’s never had to sleep eight to a room, that’s for sure. Surprisingly, Mikhail doesn’t say anything, just looks around curiously while Yuuri sweeps his bunk to make sure he’s packed everything.

“All right, I’m good. I just need to turn in the key and we can go get breakfast,” Yuuri says.

“Do you want to walk back to where I’m staying? We can get coffee on the way and drop your bag off before we get food,” Mikhail suggests.

“Sure,” Yuuri agrees. Checkout is quick and easy, and the woman at the front desk recommends a coffee shop on their way that’s apparently won a bunch of barista awards. Yuuri’s not that much of a coffee snob, but Mikhail looks delighted at the suggestion.

His face gets even brighter when they arrive and discover the place specializes in latte art. “Yuuri! I’m going to ask for a puppy!” he exclaims.

“A puppachino?” the barista jokes, and he literally _clasps his hands_ in joy.

It’s pretty cute how enthusiastic he gets over his drink. Even though they order the drinks to go, Mikhail spends long minutes at the milk bar framing a shot of his drink before he has to cover it up with a take-out lid.

“Cute things taste even better,” he insists to Yuuri as they head back out.

Yuuri freezes, caught between his instinctive response and the realization that he’s never said anything so cheesy in his _life._ But fuck it, he’s on vacation and Vacation-Yuuri has no shame.

“That must be why I want to kiss you so much right now,” he replies. He’s blushing, he knows it, but he isn’t going to hide his face even though he desperately wants to.

It’s worth it for the expression on Mikhail’s face.

“Yuuri!” he exclaims. He holds his coffee out with one hand and grabs Yuuri’s upper arm with the other. “ _Please_ kiss me!”

Yuuri laughs and leans in. They’re on the sidewalk, there are a million people around them, but Mikhail’s bright eyes and eager smile are irresistable. It’s a gentle, sweet kiss, but he takes his time with it, cupping Mikhail’s face with his free hand.

When he steps back, Mikhail is still smiling, but his eyes are soft and hopeful. He’s so beautiful, it almost hurts.

“Come on,” Yuuri says. “I still have to drop this bag off.”

They continue their walk, but the coffee has woken Yuuri’s appetite and now that he’s thinking about breakfast, he’s not sure he can handle delaying their meal any longer.

“Do you mind if we grab something quick? Before we go to your place? I’m too hungry to wait in line for a proper breakfast,” he admits.

“Of course! We just passed a deli--sandwiches?”

Yuuri agrees, and they order their sandwiches to go since they’re not far from Mikhail’s apartment. There are plates in the kitchen cupboards and they settle on the sofa to eat, forgoing the tiny dining table.

“It’s your last day! Is there anything you want to see?” Mikhail asks.

“Honestly, no,” Yuuri says. “And especially after being out all day yesterday, I kind of just want to relax today. I can entertain myself here if you want to go out, though!”

Oh, shit, no, no one’s going to leave a stranger alone in their apartment. “Or I can go out if you need some alone time! Or we can go somewhere together! I promise I don’t want to rob you,” he finishes awkwardly. Shit. There goes any pretence of being a normal guy.

Mikhail laughs, apparently delighted by this spew of words. “Yuuri, you don’t need to go anywhere! I have so much time to explore the city, but I only have one more day with you. If you want to stay in, I would love that!”

Seriously, this guy is too nice for his own good. “There must be something you want to do, though,” Yuuri says.

“Well.” For the first time, Mikhail looks reluctant to speak. “I, um, had some ideas last night.”

“What do you mean?” Yuuri asks. SEX SEX HE’S TALKING ABOUT SEX, Yuuri’s inner monologue is screaming, but he can’t just assume that that’s what Mikhail means, because that ends with him pantsless in the hallway and Mikhail yelling at him through a locked door to get the hell away from him.

“Um.” Mikhail’s nose gets red when he blushes. It’s adorable. “Before we went to bed. We were too tired to get into anything too serious, but I thought you might want to…”

“Yes?” Yuuri says. It’s petty, but Mikhail has been so confident all along—those filthy words last night, his brazen nakedness this morning—that it’s nice to see him act as if he’s as nervous as Yuuri usually is.

“Yuuri, are you teasing me?” It seems Mikhail has figured him out.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Yuuri says, feeling his mouth start to twitch.

“Yuuri! Oh, you are!”

Yuuri laughs at the outrage on Mikhail’s face and swings his legs up onto the sofa so he can press closer to Mikhail, leaning in to kiss him.

What is it about this guy that makes Yuuri feel so comfortable? Some of it has to be vacation stress--with so many things to worry about (his phone, his bags, does he know where his passport is, which bus does he have to catch tomorrow to get to the airport, or should he pay the extra money and take a cab instead?), looking like an idiot in front of a hot guy just doesn’t rate.

And on top of that, Mikhail is so blissfully oblivious to Yuuri’s discomfort that it’s like it just doesn’t exist. Maybe to Mikhail everything that Americans do is so weird that Yuuri’s awkwardness doesn’t stand out.

Whatever it is, Yuuri’s grateful for it. And it’s only one more night--he can hold it together that long, and then he’ll be back in Detroit and able to revert to his usual loner self until Phichit returns in August.

For now, though, this is exactly how he wants to spend the afternoon--nipping the mound of Mikhail’s Adam’s apple as he trails kisses down his neck, feeling the shiver ripple through Mikhail’s body. He’s so sensitive. It’s thrilling, seeing how easily he responds to Yuuri’s touch. “Is this what you meant?” Yuuri asks.

Mikhail makes a frustrated noise and tries to wrestle his shirt off, arching against Yuuri so he can ruck the shirt up his spine. “I want this off,” he complains.

Yuuri helps, tugging his shirt over his head and taking a moment to just look at him--the defined lines of his chest and abs, the breadth of his shoulders. Are all hot guys this eager to get undressed? The world would be a better place if they were. God, imagine if _Victor Nikiforov_ were this ready to strip down--walking around the changing room at World’s with his costume unzipped? Or in just his tights? Yuuri doesn’t think he’d be able to go out on the ice after seeing that.

Fortunately, he hadn’t shared a changing room with Victor at World’s--they’d drawn different flights for the short, and Victor was so far ahead after it that Yuuri couldn’t hope to catch up. He’d watched Victor’s gold-medal-winning free from the seats set aside for competitors in the stands, torn between disappointment in his own performance and joy at getting to watch Victor skate in person. That part, at least, was a dream come true--seeing his idol compete at the peak of his ability, flowing effortlessly through his routine, and then watching him accept his fourth consecutive gold medal! Incredible.

But he finds now that when he thinks of Victor, he fills in Victor’s heroic outline with Mikhail’s human details--the freckles on Mikhail’s nose, the delicate bow of his upper lip, the fine lines around his eyes. Victor’s still his idol, but he’s not _real_ , not like this cheerful, impulsive man he’s spent, what, 24 hours with?

He nuzzles in closer to Mikhail’s neck, rubbing his chin against Mikhail’s shoulder. Yuuri doesn’t have much stubble, even though it’s been a couple of days since he shaved, but there’s enough to generate some pleasant friction against Mikhail’s smooth skin.

Mikhail squeaks and flinches, one hand coming up to push Yuuri’s face away. “Yuuri! You’re bristly!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Shit, did he actually hurt him? What a fuckup, Yuuri, way to go. He claps a hand to his face, scrambling backward on the sofa. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

“Wait, where are you going?” Mikhail frowns.

“Uh. Are you okay?”

“Well, not anymore,” he says, and he is definitely pouting.

“Sorry, I thought I hurt you,” Yuuri says. He feels stupid for overreacting--he knows Mikhail can be dramatic, and on top of that, he’s noticed that Mikhail tends to forget what he’s said only moments after saying it.

Mikhail rolls onto his hands and knees and prowls toward Yuuri on the sofa. Yuuri’s mouth goes dry. Shirtless, with his silvery blond hair in his face and those intense blue eyes fixed on Yuuri--Yuuri’s had dreams that start like this.

“Yuuri,” Mikhail murmurs, closing in on him.

“Uh,” Yuuri says.

“Don’t you want me?” Mikhail whispers, his mouth at Yuuri’s ear.

“Uh,” Yuuri says again. Of course he wants him, but Yuuri’s a fucking trash monster who’s been wearing the same pair of underwear since yesterday morning.

“Please,” Mikhail sighs. “Won’t you please come to bed with me?”

“I have to shower,” Yuuuri blurts out.

“What?”

“I need to shower first, I’m sorry. Um. I’ll meet you in the bedroom?”

“We could shower together,” Mikhail says, looking sweet and hopeful.

“I...seriously, Mikhail, you’re so gorgeous, I do want to shower with you, but I’m still wearing my underwear from yesterday and I just need a moment to, like. Find my sexy.” God, he can barely speak English. Hopefully Mikhail will understand, because Yuuri doesn’t think he’s capable of explaining any better than that.

“Oh,” Mikhail says. “Well. I’ll be waiting,” and he slips off the couch, looking over his shoulder to make sure Yuuri’s watching him as he slides off his trousers. Yuuri’s not sure what his face looks like, but Mikhail seems satisfied with what he sees. “Don’t be long.” He saunters to the bedroom, his perfect ass flexing as he moves.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Yuuri mutters. He leaves his clothes in a heap on the living room floor in his rush for the bathroom and takes the fastest shower he can: pits, ass, groin, just the essentials. He makes sure to rinse the soap suds from his dick. If Mikhail is going to put his mouth on it like he promised last night, Yuuri’s going to make sure he doesn’t regret it.

When he gets to the bedroom, Mikhail’s on his side in the bed like an old-school centerfold, one hand loosely covering his dick. This is...Yuuri is going to masturbate to this memory for the rest of his _life_.

“Will you come join me now?” Mikhail asks, and he holds his hand out to Yuuri.

Yuuri stumbles forward, dropping his towel. He can’t take his eyes off Mikhail--his body, yes, his sculpted chest and flushed pink cock, but mostly it’s his eyes that Yuuri’s fixated on, half-lidded and utterly magnetic.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” Yuuri says. “I hope…” and he cuts himself off, because is he really going to drag out his insecurities _now_ , when he has a gorgeous man lying naked before him? Yuuri may be an anxious mess, but he’s not an idiot.

“You look so good,” he says instead, and squeezes Mikhail’s outstretched hand as he kisses him.

Mikhail sighs into the kiss, inching backward to pull Yuuri onto the bed with him. As Yuuri settles beside him, he opens his eyes to meet Mikhail’s and pushes Mikhail’s hair back to reveal the sheen of his high, damp brow. This close, Mikhail’s glossy, otherworldly beauty dissolves into its component parts: the red flush at the tip of his nose, the fine pores on his cheeks, the shadow of his eyelashes. It feels so intimate, especially as he can tell Mikhail is examining his face just as closely.

“I still want you to fuck me,” Mikhail says quietly. “Is that okay? Do you want that?”

“I definitely want that. Are you sure, though? I, uh, I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Yuuri admits. “I haven’t done this before.”

“I can show you,” Mikhail says. He tips his head forward so their foreheads meet, his eyes intent on Yuuri’s. “Let me show you.”

Yuuri feels caught by his gaze, teetering on the verge of panic. What if he hurts Mikhail? Or what if he _bores_ Mikhail? He doesn’t know which he fears more.

“Yuuri,” Mikhail murmurs. “I can make it so good for you. Just trust me.”

“I do,” Yuuri says, and is surprised to realize it’s true. Mikhail hasn’t faltered at all in the short time Yuuri’s known him—not when Yuuri had spilled his drink all over him, not when Yuuri had promised him a dog run and failed to deliver, and not now when Yuuri has admitted his inexperience. He makes everything seem manageable.

Mikhail’s face breaks into the sweetest smile and he leans in to squeeze Yuuri in a tight hug. “I promise,” he says. “You’re going to love this.”

He makes quick work of finding the lube and condoms Yuuri had bought last night and ends up crouching over Yuuri, fingering himself open while Yuuri stares at the micro-expressions that cross his face.

“Do you want to feel?” Mikhail asks, leaning forward to press the side of his face against Yuuri’s sternum. Past the rise of his ass, Yuuri can see his arm contorted to reach behind him. “Just make sure to get your fingers really wet.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri croaks. “I do.” He squeezes lube over his fingers--more than he needs, it drips onto the sheets, and Yuuri knows that at any other time he’d be mortified at what the owner of the apartment would think, but right now he just wants to get his fingers inside Mikhail as fast as possible.

He skims his hand along Mikhail’s arm until he finds his hand, two fingers extended and resting against his asshole. He cups his hand over Mikhail’s, nudging his own fingers against Mikhail’s hole.

“That’s it,” Mikhail says. “Just press in a bit.” He turns his head, his pointy chin digging into Yuuri’s breastbone, to meet Yuuri’s eyes. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, distractedly. He’s so _warm_ , and his asshole is so smooth and slick. Does he wax? Shouldn’t he have hair here? God, why is he thinking about this. Yuuri sinks his finger into Mikhail’s ass, surprised at how easily it goes. He’d expected to struggle a bit, but Mikhail’s prepped himself well, and he makes a happy little hum as Yuuri pushes into him.

“There you go,” he says. “You can do two if you want.”

Yuuri does want. He slides his index finger out and pushes back in with two fingers, both of them going in smoothly. Mikhail’s still watching him, and he suddenly feels very exposed. “Are you...is this okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Mikhail says. He smiles and turns his face to nuzzle his cheek against Yuuri’s chest. “Are you okay?”

“You’re so warm,” Yuuri says. “Does this...do you feel good?” As Yuuri fucks his fingers into Mikhail, he can feel the brush of his own cock against his wrist, the trickle of precum from it sticky on his skin.

“So good, Yuuri,” he says, his smile audible in his voice. “You’re going to...can you move your fingers? You want to find…” He seems to get distracted by the movement of Yuuri’s fingers, letting a shiver run through him. “Curl your fingers down, you’re looking for…oh! There!”

Yuuri can feel it, the soft, spongy lump of his prostate, and he rubs his fingertips over it, enjoying the moans it coaxes from Mikhail. His heavy cock brushes against Yuuri’s abs as he rocks his hips into the movement of Yuuri’s hand, smearing precum on the fine hairs leading down to Yuuri’s groin.

“You sound so good,” Yuuri says to the top of Mikhail’s head. “Is...are you ready for more?”

“Yeah,” Mikhail sighs. “Mmm, but just…” He trails off as he lowers his hips, bringing his groin fully into contact with Yuuri’s body and wrapping his arms around Yuuri to hug him tightly. His hot, blood-flushed dick feels like a brand on Yuuri’s stomach, trapped between the two of them.

He turns his head to meet Yuuri’s eyes. “Hi,” Mikhail says, a tender little smile on his lips.

“Hey,” Yuuri replies, holding his fingers still. They’re so close right now, pressed skin-to-skin along the full lengths of their bodies. Mikhail’s so beautiful in the thin light from the window, his silky hair swept back from his brow, his intensely blue eyes warm and focused.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Yuuri replies. He still doesn’t understand his appeal for Mikhail, but maybe slumming it is how Vacation Mikhail rebels against his everyday life. God knows Vacation Yuuri’s fully in control now, emboldened by the combined powers of hot stranger and vacation give-no-fucks.

“Do you want to fuck me now?” Mikhail asks, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s chest. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah. Wow.” Yuuri strokes Mikhail’s hair with his free hand. “Um, how?”

Mikhail laughs and sits up, straddling Yuuri. Yuuri’s fingers come free, and he curls his hand into a fist at the small of Mikhail’s back.

“Let’s get this on you,” Mikhail says, reaching for a condom packet. He makes quick work of it, unrolling it smoothly over Yuuri’s cock and slicking it with even more lube. He looks up at Yuuri, both hands wrapped around his dick, and winks. “I really just wanted to get my hands on this again.”

Yuuri’s laugh catches him by surprise--he didn’t expect to relax enough to be able to do so, but there’s something irresistible about Mikhail’s playfulness.

“Not just your hands, I hope,” Yuuri replies, shocked at his own boldness, but Mikhail looks so delighted that he can’t regret it.

“You’re right, I’ve been waiting too long for this,” he says, and he scoots himself forward on his knees until he’s hovering over Yuuri’s cock. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Yuuri confirms, pressing his hands into the bed.

Mikhail reaches behind himself, grasping Yuuri’s cock, and slowly sinks onto it. It’s all Yuuri can do to keep himself still—his hips want to follow Mikhail’s teasing heat, his hands want to pull Mikhail to him. He’s so _hot_ inside—tight and slippery, and while Yuuri’s imagined it before, he’d never thought it could feel so good.

“Holy shit,” he says as Mikhail finally takes his entire length in. “You’re so incredible.”

Mikhail giggles, looking giddy, and says, “ _You’re_ incredible.” He’s so lovely like this, his eyes sparkling and his mouth wide and heart-shaped.

“Can I...is it okay if I touch you?” Yuuri asks. His hands are sweating, buried in the bedclothes so that he doesn’t manhandle Mikhail. He doesn’t trust his ability to hold himself back once he starts.

“Yes!” Mikhail says. He bends forward to grab Yuuri’s hands, but doing so changes the angle of Yuuri’s cock inside him. He grips Yuuri’s hands tightly, his breath stuttering out. “Oh, God, Yuuri, please, I have to move now.”

Yuuri nods unblinkingly, unable to tear his eyes from Mikhail’s face as he focuses on what he’s feeling. Mikhail’s lips part as he drags in a breath, bracing himself as he starts to gently rock his hips.

It’s all Yuuri can do not to explode immediately. Mikhail feels so good--the heat, the pressure, the ripple of muscle around Yuuri’s cock as he rises and falls. He gropes for Mikhail’s hips, sliding his hands up Mikhail’s thighs, and feels his own body respond, snapping his own thighs upward to meet Mikhail.

Mikhail groans and leans forward, his eyes intent on Yuuri’s. “Faster, Yuuri,” he pleads, and Yuuri has to obey. Whatever Mikhail wants. He could ask Yuuri to cancel his flight and stay here forever, and he would--abandon his degree, fire his coach, quit skating altogether as long as he can stay in this moment, driving his hips up despite the burn in the back of his thighs. It’s so hard to get any purchase with his feet--the sheets are bunched up under them, and his feet skid when he tries to plant them into the bed to give himself the leverage he needs to thrust his hips up again.

The shock of slipping on the sheets shudders through him, and he tightens his hands on Mikhail’s hips instinctively so he doesn’t slip free. Mikhail gasps at the rough handling and Yuuri’s heart drops, certain that this is it, he’s actually hurt him, Mikhail’s going to kick him out and he’d deserve it, but instead Mikhail moans his name, says, “Yes, Yuuri, harder,” and straightens up to start moving even faster.

It’s all Yuuri can do to hold on, flexing his ass and thighs to match Mikhail’s pace. He wants to touch Mikhail’s cock--it bounces off his abs with each upstroke, but he can’t bring himself to let go of his death grip on Mikhail’s hips.

“Touch yourself,” Yuuri gasps. Mikhail’s back is arched, head thrown back and neck extended as he takes his own pleasure in Yuuri. He’s glorious like this, the sheen of sweat on his neck and arms making it look like he’s glowing, and he drags one hand from where he’s been bracing himself on Yuuri’s stomach to wrap around his cock.

Yuuri can _feel_ the shiver that runs through him, and he bites his lip hard to keep from coming then and there.

“Yuuri,” Mikhail moans. “You’re so good, you feel so good, come on, just like that.” He strips his cock in time with each thrust, hips rising and falling, and Yuuri can’t hold out--Mikhail feels so slick and hot and wet around him, like nothing he’s ever felt before.

“I’m going to come,” he says. “Mikhail, please, you feel so good,” and if he’s not careful, he’s going to start babbling in Japanese at him. He just doesn’t have the brainpower to spare to make sure he’s still making sense in English.

“Yeah, come on,” Mikhail says. “I want you to come, I’m so close, please, fuck me just like this.”

“Oh, god,” Yuuri groans. “I’m coming--Mikhail--” He thrusts up hard, and a part of him notes that this is the same kind of power it takes to launch himself into a jump--the drive of his hips, his quads, his hamstrings, just applied to a different goal. He doesn’t have long to dwell on it, though, overcome by the rush of his climax as he comes, shuddering, into Mikhail’s wet heat.

When he blinks his eyes open once again, it’s to Mikhail caught up in his own orgasm, slack-mouthed and clutching his own cock as he comes. He slumps down over Yuuri, snuggling in under Yuuri’s chin.

“You’re going to need another shower,” he says, the smile audible in his voice.

“Mmm,” Yuuri says. “Later.”

They both doze, lulled by their intense activity. Eventually, the sticky discomfort of the condom he’s still wearing is too much for Yuuri, and he presses a kiss to Mikhail’s forehead to rouse him. “I need to get rid of this,” he explains.

Mikhail looks sleep-dazed and sulky, but he shifts over enough that Yuuri can squeeze out from under him.

He wipes himself down quickly in the bathroom and brings a warm, damp washcloth back to the bedroom for Mikhail.

“Come on,” he says gently. “You’ll feel better.” Mikhail huffs but obliges, rolling onto his back so Yuuri can clean his belly and between his legs. It’s so intimate handling another person like this—Mikhail is so sleepy and pliant, and the trust he has in Yuuri makes his heart hurt if he thinks about it too much.

When he returns to bed, Mikhail tugs the sheet over both of them and tucks himself back in against Yuuri, his head heavy on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Do you want to get up?” Yuuri murmurs.

Mikhail hides his face against Yuuri’s arm and says, “You have to leave tomorrow.” His words are muffled, but Yuuri’s been thinking the same thing and it’s not hard to figure out what Mikhail means.

“My flight’s at noon, but I need to be there an hour ahead,” he says.

“I don’t want you to go,” Mikhail says. “I know you have to. I just wish we had more time.”

Yuuri wishes he could just say it--”Come with me, I want to keep seeing you, you’re everything I ever wanted,” but he’s not the kind of person who can make promises lightly.

“Everything about my time with you has been wonderful,” he says. He smooths Mikhail’s hair back from his brow so he can look him in the eye. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Mikhail says, kissing Yuuri’s shoulder. “But you have goals. I understand that. And I know you don’t always get to choose what you have to sacrifice to achieve them.”

Yuuri doesn’t have anything to say to that. His goals feel very small and very far away right now.


	5. Detroit, May 2015: Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends, I noticed that I managed to lose all the italics when posting the previous chapters. It should be fixed now, but if you do go back to reread, you'll notice a lot more emotional nuance!

He’s only been back for a week, but Detroit is so much _duller_ than Yuuri remembers. Sure, part of it is because Phichit isn’t here, and going from living and training and studying with his best friend to being completely on his own for the summer pretty much sucks. But also, he misses Mikhail. Like, really misses him.

It’s stupid. He barely knows the guy--they only spent two days together, he doesn’t even know his last name, and before he left, they’d both agreed that trying to hold onto what they’d had would only ruin it. 

“This whole weekend has been like a dream,” Yuuri had said, lying in Mikhail’s arms the morning of his flight home.

“The kind that makes you wake up smiling,” Mikhail had agreed, and Yuuri feels warm when he thinks about that even now, because he’s had so many long-standing daydreams that he’s carried with him over the years. This one just has a little more grounding in reality, maybe, than meeting Victor Nikiforov on the podium or commissioning music to skate to like Victor does.

But Yuuri’s been working on that last one--a little bit, at least. Maybe. He’s not sure yet. He’s been talking to one of Phichit’s friends, a music student, about what it takes to commission a piece, and she’d seemed intrigued by the challenge of composing a musical theme that’s meant to represent an athlete’s style. 

It’ll be a challenge for both of them. Yuuri’s coaches have always chosen his music and commissioned his choreography, but he’s wanted to have some more input for a while, and a theme that’s based on him--on his skating, on his career to date--is a good place to start.

It’s like the time he spent with Mikhail has helped him figure out what he needs more of in his life. Mikhail’s openness to experience, how delighted he was by Yuuri’s spontaneous decisions and how eager he was to go along with them--Yuuri wants that. That kind of enthusiasm, that kind of recklessness. It’s not who he is right now, but maybe that can be him in the future?

Anyway, he’s thinking about it.

For now, he’s got laundry to do--the grimy laundry room in the basement of their building only has three washers for all forty apartments in the building, so Yuuri tends to take his things down when normal people are at work so he can be sure at least one will be free.

“Thanks for putting me in touch with Ketty,” Yuuri says into his earbuds microphone. “I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere, but she wants to give it a shot.”

“I told you!” Phichit crows. “She’s great, you guys are going to come up with something awesome together.”

“I’m hoping. I haven’t said anything to Celestino yet.”

“Is he bugging you about your programs yet? I think Muramoto wants me to do something classical again this year.”

Yuuri shuts the washer door and swipes his pay card to start the laundry cycle. “He’s not back yet--I think Thursday? But it’ll be straight to work as soon as he’s here.”

“No slacking off! This is going to be your best season yet!”

Yuuri’s phone buzzes with an incoming text, and he glances down at it. “Oh, shit.”

“Yuuri? What is it?”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Yuuri shoves his phone back in his pocket and grabs his laundry basket. Fuck, what the fuck, what’s he supposed to do now?

“Yuuri!” Phichit says. “Hey, stay with me. What’s happening?”

“Oh my god, Phichit,” Yuuri says. He can’t wait for the elevator. He strides instead for the stairwell at the end of the hall.

“You’re freaking out, Yuuri,” Phichit says. “Did something happen? Are you still doing laundry?”

“I’m in the stairwell,” Yuuri says. “I just got a text message.”

“Is it the government telling you to pay your taxes in iTunes gift cards? That’s not a thing, Yuuri.”

“No! It’s from Mikhail. The guy I met in New York.”

“Oh! Mister 24-hour first date!”

“Phichit! He’s _here_. He’s in Detroit.”

“Oh my god!” Phichit sounds delighted, the traitor.

“What is he _doing_ here? We agreed, he said it was a perfect weekend and no need to make it anything more, so why did he just message me?”

“Yuuri!” Phichit interrupts. “Did he _say_ , or did you _hear_?”

“What?” Yuuri pauses on the landing, his hand tight on the banister.

“Is that what he actually said? Or did you just decide that one perfect weekend was enough for you?”

“One perfect weekend _is_ enough!” Yuuri presses his hand to his chest. His heart is racing. “Why does he want more than that? I’m not that guy, I can’t be _perfect_ for more than a weekend. Wasn’t that enough for him?”

“Yuuri. Hey. Come on, take a breath,” Phichit says.

Yuuri takes the last flight of stairs two at a time, panting into his headset. “Why is he _here?”_

He locks the door behind him as soon as he gets inside. “Phichit, I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to reply to him,” Phichit says. “You could just ghost him.”

“What? No! I can’t just ghost him.”

“Well, you’re going to have to reply to him then,” Phichit points out. 

“Maybe...I can just keep pretending to be Vacation Yuuri until he goes home for real,” Yuuri says. 

“Vacation Yuuri? Is that like you but in a Hawaiian shirt?” Phichit asks. 

“No, Vacation Yuuri is cool,” Yuuri explains. “He doesn’t freak out, he doesn’t say anything stupid, he’s just going to hang out with this guy for as long as it takes for him to get this out of his system and leave.”

“Vacation Yuuri sounds boring,” Phichit says, and uh, hello, Vacation Yuuri is obviously _not_ boring if Mikhail came to Detroit to meet him.

“Look, this guy did not come to Detroit for Regular Yuuri, so this is my only option here.” Yuuri takes a deep breath. “Okay, I have to go. I have to text him back. I’ll keep you updated, I guess.”

“No ‘I guess’, there is going to be drama and I am here for it,” Phichit says. 

“Oh god, okay, but I have to figure out what to say to him so I’m hanging up now.”

“Bye!” Phichit sings out as Yuuri disconnects the call.

Fuck. Can’t he be _done_ with Vacation Yuuri? How is he supposed to be cool and sexy when he’s living in this gross old apartment, only leaving to go to the rink or to campus? Vacation Yuuri doesn’t spend hours doing figures in the middle of the night—he’s at the bar buying a drink for a hot stranger and somehow seducing him into a weekend-long date. Or so Yuuri presumes. Once is enough for a pattern, right?

Ugh, what does he even say? Mikhail wants to have dinner—should he pretend to be busy? Forever? No. He needs to deal with this for real, or he’s just going to stress about it all night long. 

“Hey. I’m free for dinner. Where are you staying?” Oh god, what if he’s planning to stay at Yuuri’s? Beautiful, successful Mikhail can’t be allowed to see this place. Oh, shit, and he knows Yuuri’s roommate is out of town, so he can’t even pretend he doesn’t have room. 

Yuuri’s panic spiral is interrupted by a text message alert—oh, thank god. Mikhail’s got a hotel room. 

Yuuri texts back, “Want to go for burgers? There’s a good place near where you’re staying.” And it’s on a bus line, so Yuuri will be able to get there pretty easily. 

Mikhail’s replies come quickly, as if he can’t wait to see Yuuri. But it’s not like he would have had any other reason besides seeing Yuuri for coming to Detroit, so he’s got to be, like, _really_ into Vacation Yuuri.

They arrange to meet that evening, and by the time Yuuri gets to the restaurant, he’s on the verge of freaking out completely. How is he going to be able to keep this up? He’s already terrified of letting Mikhail down.

But somehow, when he’s actually face-to-face with Mikhail outside the restaurant--when he can finally hold him again, his face pressed to Mikhail’s shoulder, his hands overlapping on Mikhail’s back--everything just seems to settle. 

“Yuuri,” Mikhail says into Yuuri’s neck. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Yuuri murmurs. He even smells the same--how can someone else’s scent be so comforting after only two days of exposure? Yuuri can feel the keyed-up anxiety he’d been carrying all day easing out of his body. “Should we go in?”

“Can we...are you okay if we get takeaway and go back to my hotel?” Mikhail asks. “I don’t think I’m up for being around a lot of people.”

Yuuri leans back so he can look Mikhail in the eye. He really does look worn out. He’s still gorgeous, of course, but he has shadows under his eyes and his hair is mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. 

“Come on, we’ll go get falafel. It’ll be faster,” Yuuri says, hooking his arm in Mikhail’s to lead him down the street. And this way he doesn’t have to spend $14 on a burger, he thinks to himself. 

The falafel place is close to Mikhail’s hotel, and in less than 20 minutes they’re in his room, using the pair of armchairs and round coffee table by the window for their dinner. 

“Um, what made you come to Detroit?” Yuuri asks.

“Well, you made it sound so appealing,” Mikhail says, eyes bright and teasing. He’s relaxed since that desperate hug on the sidewalk and now he’s sprawled in his armchair, legs spread so his knee nudges against Yuuri’s. 

“Was it just because of me?” Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s asking. What’s he going to do if Mikhail admits it?

“I did want to see you!” Mikhail says. “But also, I want you to show me what your life is like here! What’s it like going to college? What do you and your friends do for fun? I want to see everything!”

Fuck. This might actually be worse than Mikhail coming just to see him. He doesn’t _have_ fun college adventures. He spends all his time at the rink when he’s not in class. The only friend he talks to regularly is on the other side of the world right now--he barely knows his classmates, and he definitely doesn’t _socialize_ with them. And let’s not even mention his rinkmates--that pushy girl who keeps trying to coddle him, that guy who _always_ has something to say when Yuuri flubs a jump, the hypercompetitive juniors who’ve only been skating for a few years but who are somehow so much more steady on the ice than Yuuri is.

“Oh, uh. It’s pretty boring, actually,” Yuuri stammers. “Not a lot of people stick around for the summer.”

“What about the city? We could go sightseeing!” Mikhail looks so excited, and even though Yuuri can’t imagine what there could be to see and do here, he doesn’t have the heart to turn Mikhail down.

“Sure, yeah, we can do that. Uh. I have class in the morning, but I could meet you here around 2?”

“Do you want to stay over?” Mikhail asks. “I can set an alarm so you can get to your class tomorrow.”

Fuck, he does _not_ want to stay here tonight. He needs time for a proper breakdown in the privacy of his own home, thank you very much. “Oh. Um. I have to do some reading before class, so I should go home tonight,” Yuuri says. “I can come back tomorrow and we can figure out where to go.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” Mikhail says. “Do you have to go now?”

“I probably should,” Yuuri says. “The more I can get done tonight, the more time we’ll have tomorrow.”

Mikhail slumps a bit in his chair, fiddling with the empty wrapper from his dinner. “I’m glad you were able to come out tonight.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yuuri says, with all the sincerity he can muster. He’s just got to hold himself together for a little bit longer.

Mikhail doesn’t say anything, focused on folding and unfolding the corner of the wrapper in his hands.

“Um. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Yuuri says. 

“Yes,” Mikhail says, looking up. “Let me know if you get done early--I can come meet you after your class, if you want.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll let you know.” Yuuri stands up, brushing crumbs off his lap. “Um. Do you want to…”

Mikhail stands, too, crumpling the paper in his hands. “Let me walk you out,” he says.

“Sure,” Yuuri says. God, this is so painful, he just wants to _go_ , he needs to run this nervous energy off but he’s still trying to be cool for Mikhail.

He reaches for Mikhail’s hand, and something in Mikhail seems to relax as soon as they make contact. 

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Mikhail says. He brings Yuuri’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles, his eyes sliding closed. He looks so soft like this--still intimidatingly gorgeous, with his shiny hair and defined jaw, but vulnerable too. It would be easy to hurt him, Yuuri realizes, and that makes his throat feel tight. Something else to worry about.

He steps in closer to Mikhail. “Good night,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss Mikhail. He doesn’t want to make it a sexy kiss, just something comforting. Honestly, he could use the comfort too right now.

When they separate, Mikhail blinks his eyes open with a tender little half smile. “Study hard tonight,” he says. “I want to see you tomorrow.”

Yuuri smiles back involuntarily. This guy. Even when Yuuri’s trying to keep his distance, he still manages to hook him. “I will. I’ll see you soon.”


	6. Detroit, May 2015: Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I fixed the formatting issues, but call them out if you see any! Enjoy this chapter--it should be long enough and angsty enough to hold you over until next week.

After he walks Yuuri to the street, Victor comes back to his room. He suddenly feels very tired; he sweeps the napkins and wrappers from the little table into the trash can, then sits down heavily on the bed.

Then gets up, puts the trash can in the bathroom, closes the door, and comes back to the bed. 

He isn’t sure how he’d thought this evening would go. He knows Yuuri didn’t expect to see him again, but he’d thought maybe he’d be more excited about it? Having Victor in his own city, getting to share his life here--in New York, they’d both been tourists, neither of them really having any ties to the city. Here, Yuuri has a life, he has a routine, he has friends. 

Victor is only just starting to realize that maybe Yuuri doesn’t want Victor to be part of that.

Mechanically, he undresses for bed. Sleep is a long time coming, but eventually, he manages to doze off. He misses his dog.

The morning seems a bit brighter. Yuuri had said he wouldn’t be available until two, so Victor takes the time to chat with the concierge about places to go in the city. He likes sightseeing—museums, architecture, monuments. It makes him feel peacefully insignificant to think of so many human lives dedicated to building something that will outlast them. 

He also looks up skating rinks in the city. He doesn’t plan to skate while here—travelling incognito has meant avoiding anything that might connect him to Victor Nikiforov, but the ice has always been a source of solace to him and he thinks that maybe he could drop in just to watch during an open skate. He’ll have to be careful to hide his hair if he does—he knows it’s distinctive, and actual skating fans are less likely to be put off by his fake identity than Yuuri was. 

And that’s another worry that’s niggling at him—Yuuri knows who Victor Nikiforov is, but it doesn’t seem like he follows figure skating or knows too much about it. How is he going to react if Victor tells him the truth? _Should_ Victor tell him the truth? He likes Yuuri, and lying to him, even if it’s just by omission, feels bad, but he honestly doesn’t want to deal with being Victor Nikiforov at all. 

Damn it. Coming to Detroit was stupid. He’s still just trying to run away from his real life by latching onto the first person in years who doesn’t treat him like an idol, a rival, a cash cow, or an obligation. But what else can he do? 

He texts Yuuri, suggesting they meet at the Institute for the Arts when he’s done class. It’s close to the university, and it was one of the first things the front desk had suggested when he asked what there was to see in the city.

And he feels pathetic for doing it, but he also packs food and towels for a picnic at Belle Isle after. He still remembers how romantic that evening in Central Park had been: lying in the grass as the sun set, Yuuri’s hand warm in his as he stared up at the sky overhead. Talking to Yuuri like a _friend_. He hadn’t shared the actual details of his life, still scared of giving away his real identity, but being able to talk so freely about how trapped he feels--all the expectations on him, how uninspired he is--was something he didn’t even realize he was missing until that moment.

He knows this thing with Yuuri is temporary. He does! He just hopes that during their time together, he can give Yuuri something as essential to him as what Yuuri’s given him.

Yuuri confirms that he can meet at the museum at two, so after lunch Victor packs his things and Ubers up there. The day is beautiful, brisk and sunny, so even though he’s early he doesn’t mind sitting down on the stairs outside the building and waiting for Yuuri. He almost misses him, caught up in watching the other people around him, but fortunately, Yuuri sees him first.

“Mikhail!” Yuuri calls, jogging up the sidewalk toward him.

“Yuuri!” He waves back, standing up. Yuuri looks so good--he’s not wearing his glasses today, and his eyes are so intense and focused without them. Victor takes his hand when he gets close enough, and Yuuri’s cheeks turn pink at the contact. God, he’s gorgeous.

“Have you been waiting long?” Yuuri asks.

“Not at all! Have you been here before?”

“A few times,” Yuuri says. “You can get in for free if you live in the area, so it’s a nice place to kill time between classes.”

“Oh! Do you want to go somewhere else, then? If you’ve already seen it?”

“You’ve never seen it,” Yuuri points out.

“Sure, but I have a backup plan too!” Victor exclaims. Yuuri’s not going to say no to the park, he thinks. And maybe copying their first date is cheating, but Victor’s not above playing on sentiment. He’s built entire programs around it, after all.

“What’s the backup plan?”

“A picnic at Belle Isle!” Victor says, swinging his backpack off his shoulder. “I packed snacks.”

Yuuri laughs. He seems so much more at ease today—maybe Victor just took him by surprise yesterday? People—fans, really—have always loved his unpredictability, but maybe that kind of thing only works on the ice. 

“I was going to suggest Belle Isle, too,” Yuuri said. “I thought you’d like it.”

“We’re agreed, then! Let’s go!” He tucks his arm in Yuuri’s and pulls him down the street. 

“Do you want to walk there?” Yuuri asks. 

“Do we...are you in a hurry? Do you still have work to do?” He hadn’t thought of that. Just because he’s on vacation doesn’t mean that Yuuri has time to spare for him.

“No, it’s just that it’s, like, two hours away on foot,” Yuuri explains. “And walking here isn’t like walking in New York.”

“Oh. Should we call an Uber?”

“We can, but we could also take the bus if you really want to see what it’s like to live here,” Yuuri says. “It’ll still take a while, but it’s shorter than walking.”

“Let’s try it! We can always get a car if it’s too long.”

Getting to see a city from the vantage point of a bus window is new to Victor, and this city isn’t like most of the ones he’s visited before.

“Everything is so far apart,” he says to Yuuri. “And the streets are so wide!”

“Yes, when I first moved here, I thought I’d be able to walk around more, but it’s really not very easy,” Yuuri says. “People still do it, but it takes a lot of time. But you can jog on the sidewalks without getting in anyone’s way!”

“Yuuri! Do you run? I want to go with you tomorrow!”

“Oh, uh, sometimes. I don’t have a regular schedule,” he says.

All told, it takes them more than an hour to get to the park, but once there, it’s just as beautiful as Victor had imagined. It’s quieter than he’d expected, but it is a weekday so most people must be at work.

As they walk along the path to the conservatory, he slips his hand into Yuuri’s, staring straight ahead so he doesn’t have to see Yuuri’s face if he decides to pull away. It’s so hard to navigate this redrawing of their boundaries. The morning Yuuri had left New York, they’d lain in bed together, his arms around Yuuri, and Yuuri had said such lovely things to him: that he’d never felt like this before, that he’d always treasure their time together. In the time since they parted ways, Victor has turned those words over in his head so many times. He just wants that feeling again--to be held, to be cherished.

Maybe this is a good step back to where they were? Yuuri hasn’t pulled his hand away, and compared to yesterday, he seems so much happier. Showing up in town with no warning was a bad idea, Victor gets that now, but fine, he fucked up and he’s accepted that. Now that Yuuri’s had some time to get used to the idea, it seems like they’re slowly moving back to what they had before. 

He just wants Yuuri to touch him again--to put his hand on his cheek, to stroke his hair. He’s been combing his hair back the way that Yuuri had styled it for him on their first day together, and he hates the way it makes his forehead look but he loves the way it makes Yuuri look at him.

“We should take a selfie here!” Victor exclaims as they approach the tall glass dome of the conservatory.

“I can take a picture of you,” Yuuri offers. 

“Yuuri! No! I want you in the picture, too,” Victor says. “Should we take it inside or outside?”

“Uh. Inside, I guess,” he says.

Inside the greenhouse, the air is warm and humid, rich with the scent of greenery. The sun filtering through the leaves casts dappled shadows on Yuuri’s upturned face.

“Wow! Yuuri! Come stand right here!” Victor pulls Yuuri into place next to him, angling his phone to make sure the giant tree behind them is in the frame too. “Perfect!”

Yuuri looks a little lost, but he gamely throws up a peace sign with the hand that isn’t around Victor’s waist. Victor takes a couple of shots to make sure neither of them are blinking or looking awkward. Ugh, his forehead looks so shiny with his hair like this. Yuuri looks cute, though. “Do you want me to send this to you?”

“Yes, but I’d rather you don’t post it,” he says. Oh, huh, Victor hadn’t even thought of that--he’s been so determined to remain incognito that he hasn’t posted anything to Instagram since Worlds. He’d deleted the app from his phone while he was still in Paris, feeling frustrated at how compulsively he was checking it when he was supposed to be taking a break from his real life.

“I don’t use social media!” he says, and it’s not a _lie_ , exactly. Mikhail New York doesn’t have any accounts, after all.

“Me neither,” Yuuri says. “I mean, my roommate makes me post once in a while--he loves it, he posts all the time and he has a ton of followers--but I just can’t get into it.”

“I don’t understand people who get so into it,” Victor lies shamelessly. “Just live your life, you know?”

“But it is a great way to get a puppy fix when I’m away from home,” Yuuri says, and oh, god, how is he so _perfect_. 

“Yuuri! Does your puppy have an account? I’ll follow him! I’ll make an account to follow him!”

Yuuri laughs. “No, my sister just sends me pictures of him. But there are lots of other dogs to follow online. I, um, follow a lot of them.” 

Oh! Maybe he follows Makkachin! Victor had created an account just for her after his publicist had warned him about spamming his main account with too many pictures of her (as if there could be such a thing as too many pictures of the best dog in the world) and now she has her own fans who probably don’t even realize that her owner has some fame in his own right.

“That is the best use of social media I’ve ever heard. Puppies on demand!” Victor exclaims. “Everyone says that social media just makes you depressed but how could you be depressed when your whole timeline is dogs?”

“Right? Like, sure you feel down when all you see are people from high school who are now way more successful than you are, but I don’t get sad when I see dogs who are more successful than I am.”

“Dogs with jobs!” Victor says.

“Dogs dressed up like they have jobs!” Yuuri counters, and the idea is so adorable--Makkachin in a construction vest and hardhat! Or in a little collar and tie! Or in a copy of one of his skating costumes--and he’s decided, he has to make that happen. When he starts working on next season’s costumes, he’s going to have his designer make a doggy version for his best girl.

“Yuuri, you’re a genius!” Victor exclaims, grabbing his arm. “I didn’t know what I was missing online!”

Yuuri laughs. “Well, if you make an account, I can show you all the best dogs to follow.” 

“I will! Tonight!” And Victor’s also making a deal with himself right now--if Makkachin is one of them, it’s a sign from the universe and it means he’s going to marry this man. You can’t argue with fate.

“Come on, though, there’s more park to see,” Yuuri says. “If we go to the beach, dogs are allowed to swim there so you can get your fix without going online.”

Which means, of course, that they have to go _immediately_. The beach is great--the water is cold, but that doesn’t stop Victor from rolling up his jeans and wading in.

“Yuuri! Come join me!” He wishes he had his dog with him too. She’d love this.

Yuuri tiptoes into the water, shoes in one hand. “Fuck, it’s cold!”

Victor laughs, kicking water toward him. “It’s not that bad! Just get past your ankles and it’ll feel fine.”

“You’re crazy,” Yuuri says, but he does inch closer.

“You just have to go for it!” Victor says. “If you go bit by bit, it’s just going to make you feel colder.”

“Is this where you tell me to just dive in?” Yuuri grumbles, but he takes a big step forward and yelps as the water washes over the tops of his feet.

“There! See? You’re used to it already,” Victor says.

Yuuri follows him deeper, the water up to their shins now. “They do a race here in the summer,” he says. “Swimming, I mean. But I don’t think the water ever gets really warm, so it’s got to be terrible.”

“It’s not that bad! See, he’s enjoying it!” Victor gestures to a big yellow dog who’s bounding through the waves.

“He’s got a fur coat on,” Yuuri grouses, but he doesn’t mean it, because no one can be grouchy in the presence of such a good boy.

The dog seems to recognize that they’re talking about him and splashes over to them. His owner waves to them from the sand. “He’s friendly!”

“Hi!” Victor exclaims. “You’re such a good boy! Are you having fun? You’re having so much fun!”

Yuuri holds his hand out to the dog and is rewarded with a nuzzle into his cupped palm.

“What a good boy,” Yuuri says. He bends forward to ruffle the dog’s ears, and oh, did Victor think Yuuri already had a hold on his heart? He’s smiling so unselfconsciously, and between the expression on his face and the dog’s, Victor can’t decide who’s cuter.

No, he’s lying again, it’s definitely Yuuri. He sneaks a photo of the two of them before the dog realizes that there’s a person who’s not paying attention to him and throws himself at Victor.

“Ahh! Yuuri! Help!” Victor lands in the water, hands up to keep his phone and shoes dry. 

“Mikhail!” The dog barks in excitement and tries to climb into Victor’s lap, but Yuuri grabs the dog’s collar and hauls him back.

“Benny!” The woman on shore comes running. “I’m so sorry!” She wades in, still wearing her sneakers, and clips Benny’s leash onto his collar. “He doesn’t usually jump like this! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Victor says, still laughing, but he can’t get up without putting either his phone or his shoes in the water. “Yuuri, help me up?”

Yuuri grabs Victor’s arm, hauling him upright, as Benny’s owner holds him out of the way.

“Oh no!” the woman says. “You’re completely soaked!”

“It’s okay! I’m fine!” Victor says, tucking his phone into the toe of his shoes so he can take Yuuri’s hand. “Is Benny okay?”

“This guy? He’s having the time of his life,” his owner says. She marches the dog back to shore, Victor and Yuuri following. Benny is completely unrepentant, shaking himself out thoroughly and spraying water on all three of them. “You’re such a jerk,” she says to her dog.

“But he’s still a good boy,” Victor points out.

“Oh, of course,” his owner says. “Are you going to be okay? I don’t have a towel or anything.”

“No, don’t worry about it. You guys continue your walk!”

She looks uncertain, but both Yuuri and Victor assure her that they’ll be fine and she heads back along the shore.

“You didn’t pack a change of clothes, did you?” Yuuri asks.

“No, but I do have these!” Victor says, pulling out two towels from his backpack. He’d planned to bring the coverlet on his hotel bed as a picnic blanket, but it was too bulky to fold up into his backpack, so he’d grabbed the towels instead.

“Here,” Yuuri says, taking them from him. “If you take off your jeans, you can wear the towel for now and we can try to dry them off.”

“Sure,” Victor says, undoing his pants. They stick to his legs as he tries to peel them off, and he has to struggle to get them down. Is he ever going to be able to do a proper striptease for Yuuri? Normally he’s so good at this.

Yuuri takes the jeans from him and hands him a towel, which he wraps around his waist. His underwear is damp, too, and even more uncomfortable than his jeans had been, so he wriggles them off too under the towel.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri gasps.

“Yuuri, you can’t expect me to stand around in wet underwear!” Victor says. 

“Oh my god,” Yuuri says, turning away. “I can’t believe you’re getting naked on a public beach.”

“No one’s here!” Victor protests. There really aren’t a lot of people on the beach today--it’s too cold for sunbathing and definitely too cold for swimming. “And I’m wearing a towel.”

Yuuri starts wringing the water out of Victor’s jeans, still facing away from him.

“Yuuri,” Victor croons. “Turn around.”

“Is that supposed to be seductive?” Yuuri must have very strong hands, to get that much water out of the jeans with each twist.

“It can be,” Victor says. “I’m wearing a towel.”

Yuuri snorts and then he starts laughing.

“Yuuri!”

“You’re ridiculous.” He turns around, still giggling and still working on the legs of Victor’s pants. “Come on, you can wring out your underwear yourself.”

“I’ll have you know that I look very sexy in a towel,” Victor says, but he does start to squeeze the water out of his underwear as directed.

“Was this part of your picnic plan?” Yuuri asks. “Pantsless dining?”

“I don’t think it’s working,” Victor says. “You’re still dressed.”

Yuuri ignores him and holds his jeans up instead. “I think this is as dry as I can get them like this,” he says. “Are you okay to stay here for a while? They might air-dry a bit.”

“I’ll be fine,” Victor says. “Come sit with me.” He adjusts the towel, moving the knot so it lies over his hip instead of under his belly button, and settles on the sand, one leg bent. He’s very aware of the way the side of the towel drapes open to expose the length of his leg, even while the rest of him is covered up.

“In a sec,” Yuuri says. He spreads out the second towel and kneels down to roll the jeans up in it. “This will absorb some more water too, I hope.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says. “I need you to keep me warm.”

“What?” Yuuri looks up, startled, and Victor can see the moment that he realizes that Victor is naked except for his T-shirt and towel. He blushes furiously, his eyes dropping involuntarily to Victor’s lap. “Oh! I’m sorry!” He snaps back to Victor’s face before clapping his hands over his own face. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice muffled.

“Yuuri!” Victor can hear the whine in his own voice, but honestly, he’s never had to try so hard before. “Don’t you like looking at me?”

“I do,” Yuuri says, very much _not_ looking at him.

“Yuuri, please,” Victor tries, laying his hand on Yuuri’s knee. “I’m cold.”

Yuuri chokes on his breath, but he lowers one hand to grab Victor’s, still hiding his eyes with the other.

“I’m sorry. Can we...can you get dressed? Are your pants dry enough yet?”

“Let me see,” Victor says. He tucks his legs under him and kneels up so he can reach over to the towel burrito Yuuri’s made of his jeans. They’re still damp, but Yuuri’s done a good job getting most of the water out of them.

Victor stands up, holding his pants, and roughly brushes sand off his calves before stepping into his cold, stiff jeans. Getting dressed under his towel takes some maneuvering, but he manages to tug his jeans up to his waist without flashing the beach. Maybe he should have put his underwear on first. He’d thought cold wet cotton on his balls would feel unpleasant, but instead he’s now got the seam of his jeans digging right into them.

“This is awful,” he says to Yuuri. “I can’t sit on a bus for an hour like this.”

“No, we need to take a cab back. It’s too cold for you to be in wet clothes for that long.” Yuuri pulls out his phone. “I’ll call us an Uber, but we’ll need to go to the entrance to meet it.”

They cram the damp towels into Victor’s backpack and trudge back to the park gates. Victor’s wet clothes chafe against his skin as he walks, and Yuuri doesn’t seem interested in making conversation. Fortunately, their Uber doesn’t take long to arrive, and soon enough, they’re back at Victor’s hotel.

“Come on up,” Victor says. “I still have all the stuff I packed for our picnic.”

“Uh, are you sure?” Yuuri asks. “If you need some time to yourself, I can just go home from here. I don’t mind.”

“Oh. If you want to go home, that’s fine.” Who knows if Yuuri even wants to be here? He says he does, but he isn’t acting like it. 

Yuuri does come up after all, and when they get to the room, Victor excuses himself to shower and change. “Feel free to go through the bag if you’re hungry,” he tells Yuuri. “I’ll be right back.”

The hot shower makes him feel a million times better, and he wraps himself in a hotel bathrobe to go back to the room. He checks himself out in the mirror, trying to arrange the robe for maximum seductiveness. Should he let it drape off one shoulder so it exposes the long line of his neck and collarbone? Or put it on properly but loosen the tie so it shows off his chest, flushed pink from the heat of the shower?

It hardly seems worth it. He’s been trying so hard since yesterday, and Yuuri just keeps pushing him away. Honestly, he's feeling cranky and frustrated and he isn’t sure Yuuri even deserves to see him looking sultry and alluring in white terrycloth. He ties the sash tightly around his waist and drapes a towel over his shoulders for his damp hair before opening the bathroom door.

It looks like Yuuri unpacked the backpack while Victor was showering. He’s arranged Victor’s charcuterie picnic on the coffee table they’d eaten at yesterday and he’s even spread out the towels and Victor’s underwear to dry on top of the dresser.

“Oh,” Victor says. “You didn’t have to do that. Thanks. Do you want to eat?”

“You went to all this trouble,” Yuuri says. “It looks delicious.”

It’s way too much, Victor can see now that it’s laid out. Three different cheeses: an herbed cream cheese, a smoked cheese, a sharp aged cheese. A creamy, fatty chicken paté. Two kinds of sausage: a spicy pork sausage and a smoked beef sausage. Six croissants. Sprouted wheat crackers, an entire jar of pickled jalapenos, plump briny olives, seven dollars worth of red and green grapes, a 200 gram slab of imported chocolate. It’s a far cry from the baguette and pre-sliced ham they’d shared in New York.

This meal is basically the whole trip to Detroit in miniature: Victor Nikiforov, trying too hard.

He pastes a smile on his face and sits down across from Yuuri. “Let’s eat.”

“I’m sorry our day got cut short,” Yuuri says. “You put a lot of planning into it.”

Victor shrugs. “That’s what I do. But did you enjoy it? I know I tend to run away with things sometimes.”

“It was wonderful,” Yuuri says, and he sounds sincere.

Victor picks at the food. It’s delicious, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite. “You really don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he says. “I know you probably have class tomorrow.”

“I’d like to stay,” Yuuri says. “How was the rest of your time in New York?” 

Seriously? Victor facetimed his dogsitter and moped around missing Yuuri. It was terrible. “Oh, it was fine. It was kind of boring once you left, though.”

“I missed you too,” Yuuri says, assembling several tiny sandwiches with the crackers and smoked sausage. “It was hard coming back to real life--school and stuff--after that.”

“Yeah,” Victor says. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to my real life yet, if I’m being honest.”

“It’s not like it’s going anywhere,” Yuuri says, putting one of the cracker sandwiches on the napkin in front of Victor. “Is it?”

“No, I can go back to exactly where I was when I left. I’ll have to catch up a bit, but I can do that. I just. I don’t know that I want to.” Fuck, this might be the first time he’s admitted this out loud. At 26, he’s one of the oldest people still competing. He’s still winning, but what new stories is he telling?

“You don’t. I mean, you don’t have to go back,” Yuuri says, leaning forward to catch Victor’s eye. “You told me that I need to follow what’s important to _me_ , not to the people around me. You’re allowed to do the same thing.”

“It’s just been so long since I’ve been excited about what I do. And I don’t know if I can do anything else.” Saying that makes his stomach feel hollow. Who is he without skating? All he’s done, ever since he was a child, is skate.

Yuuri puts another cracker smeared with paté in front of him. Huh, he must have eaten the last one. He doesn’t remember it.

“I believe in you,” Yuuri says.

Victor can feel his mouth twitch up into a smile. He isn’t sure he deserves it, but it’s still nice to hear. 

“Thank you, Yuuri.” He nudges the grapes closer to Yuuri. “Have you had any of these yet? Try them with the cheese!”

Yuuri obliges him, plucking a grape from the bunch. “You mean on the crackers?”

“No, just…” Victor cuts a slice of the aged cheddar, thin enough to wrap around a grape. “Like this,” he says, holding out the improvised dumpling to Yuuri.

Yuuri bends his head and takes it with his mouth, and Victor could swear that his heart stops at the moment of contact. The gentle pressure of Yuuri’s lips on his fingertips, the aching vulnerability of his bowed head...is this forgiveness?

He watches Yuuri chew and swallow, rapt. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “Would you like to try?”

He nods wordlessly, watching as Yuuri shaves off a thin slice of cheese to wrap around the grape he’s already holding. Victor’s lips are already parting in anticipation as Yuuri holds it up to his mouth.

Yuuri rests the grape on Victor’s lower lip, holding it there while he studies Victor’s face. Please like what you see, Victor thinks. He closes his mouth over the grape, kissing Yuuri’s finger, and eats it without tasting it.

Yuuri blushes violently, red suffusing his cheeks and nose. 

“Thank you,” Victor says, his voice low. There’s no way for him to loosen his robe without it being obvious what he’s doing, but he’s a performer. He can work around his poor costuming choices. 

He tugs on the hand towel that he’d draped over his shoulders, turning his head as he does to elongate his neck, and scrubs the towel through his hair to carelessly tousle it. He drops the towel on the chair beside him.

“What haven’t you tried yet?” he asks Yuuri.

Yuuri points blindly at the table, his eyes still fixed on Victor. “Um. Those.”

One of the croissants, maybe? Victor tears the corner off one, crisp and flaky in his hand, and brings it up to Yuuri’s lips.

The contradictions in this guy--when he’d leaned in to kiss the grape from Victor’s unsuspecting hand, he’d been seductive without even trying. Now, waiting for Victor to feed him the croissant, he looks like a baby bird--eyes closed, mouth open, pure trust.

Yuuri accepts the bite of croissant and Victor waits for his eyes to reopen before he brings his thumb to his own mouth, ostensibly to lick the crumbs off it. Watch me, Yuuri, he thinks. Your lips, my lips.

He thinks Yuuri understands. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. “You don’t...you can taste it at the source,” Yuuri says, leaning in to cup Victor’s cheek. “If that’s what you want.”

Victor doesn’t even know what noise he makes—a gasp or a sigh or some combination of the two—as he finally kisses Yuuri. 

“Are you sure you want this?” he murmurs against Yuuri’s lips, and Yuuri pushes him back, both hands on Victor’s shoulders. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, his eyes blazing. “I want this. I want you.”

“Please,” Victor says, his hands at the sash of his robe. “You have me.” He tugs the tie free so his robe falls open. “Take me to bed, Yuuri.”

Yuuri looks overwhelmed, but he slides his hands down Victor’s arms and urges him to stand with him. The robe slips off, spilling on the armchair, and then Victor’s naked, bare in a way he hasn’t been in years. 

Yuuri backs him toward the bed. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I know there’s so much more to you than that but you are so, so beautiful.”

Victor combs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, pulling it back. “You don’t see how beautiful you are, Yuuri,” he says. “It was all I could do not to kiss you all day.”

“You can kiss me now,” Yuuri says, tilting his head. “You can kiss me whenever you want.”

He doesn’t wait for Victor, though, leaning up to press his mouth to Victor’s. Victor steps backward, pulling Yuuri with him until he can feel the mattress against his calves, and bends one leg up on the bed without letting go. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Victor says. He sits back on the bed, scooting back to the pillows. “Undress for me, Yuuri.”

“Oh god.” Yuuri’s face is bright red. “Are you really going to watch?”

How can someone this cute be so shy? “Yes! I need to see you.”

“Uh, don’t expect too much,” he warns, and grabs the back of his shirt to pull it up and over his head.

“Not so fast! Tease me, Yuuri.”

He stops with his shirt half off, his chest bared but his arms still in the sleeves of his shirt. “You’re very demanding for someone who took his pants off on the beach,” Yuuri points out. 

Victor pouts. “Didn’t you like it, though?”

Yuuri smiles and drops his shirt on the floor. God, he looks good. The clean lines of his abs disappearing into the top of his jeans—Victor wants to put his mouth on them. 

Yuuri pops the button of his jeans and pauses, watching Victor. “Is this slow enough?” 

“Touch yourself,” Victor suggests.

Yuuri freezes. “What?” 

“Touch yourself. Your cock, through your jeans. I want to see you get hard.” Victor’s getting there, his cock filling as he watches Yuuri strip. 

“You really want that?” Yuuri chokes out. He looks nervous at the prospect. 

“I mean, not if you don’t want to,” Victor says. “But it’s sexy. Seeing you like this.”

“Uh.” Yuuri awkwardly gropes himself through his jeans, looking wide-eyed and panicked. “Like this?” 

“No, like...watch me,” Victor says. He leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs wider. His cock is starting to show its interest, and he strokes his fingertips along its length to spur it on. Just a tease for now--he doesn’t want to come like this, not with Yuuri right there, but it is tempting to show off for him.

“Just, you know, get yourself hard,” Victor says. He curls his hand around his cock, wanking himself slowly. “Open your pants. It’ll give you more room to work.”

Yuuri fumbles for his fly and unzips it. His underwear is black, so Victor can’t see the shadow cast by his bulge, but he’s got to be getting hard by now. Unless he’s so freaked out at being watched that he can’t get into it.

“You’re gorgeous, Yuuri.” Some reassurance can’t hurt. And he really is gorgeous, with his soft face and strong arms and the tantalizing dip of his hipbones peeking out from his jeans. “Just copy what I’m doing.”

Victor brings one hand up to his chest and is relieved to see Yuuri follow suit. He strokes his thumb over his nipple, the taut skin prickling as he touches it. Yuuri does the same.

“Remember, two hands, Yuuri,” Victor says, wiggling the fingers of his right hand to draw Yuuri’s attention back to his cock.

“Yeah.” Yuuri slips his other hand into his underwear, cupping his cock.

Focusing on Victor seems to have taken him out of his head a little--he’s intent on Victor’s hands, his own left hand plucking gently at his nipple like Victor’s doing and his right hand hidden from view but presumably tracing the length of his cock like Victor’s demonstrating.

“Does it feel good? Tell me,” Victor says.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. He’s fighting to keep his eyes fixed on Victor, but as he gets more into the sensations he’s arousing in his own body, Victor can see them glazing over.

“It’ll feel better if you take your pants off.”

Yuuri shakes his head a little to bring himself back and quickly shucks his jeans. Clearly stripteasing is something they’re going to have to work on. Later. Much later. 

Yuuri’s wearing gloriously tight boxer briefs that cup his bulge perfectly. Victor’s going to get his hands on it soon, but for now, he squeezes his own cock. “What do you like?” Victor asks. “Show me how you want me to touch myself.”

“What?” Yuuri looks startled, like he hadn’t thought about actually being able to direct the action.

“Show me. I’ll do what you do,” Victor says. “Do you want me to touch my chest? My cock? My ass?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “Do you...anywhere?”

“Anywhere,” Victor promises.

Yuuri squares his jaw and nods determinedly. Something about this suggestion has hooked him--he’s looking Victor square in the eyes now, no drifting off while following Victor’s hands anymore.

He brings his index and middle fingers to his lips. Victor does the same. He purses his lips against them--miming a kiss?--and then presses them to the spot just behind his left ear. Victor follows suit. 

Is this...is this how he wants to touch Victor? Yuuri draws his fingertips down his throat, and between the feather-light touch and Yuuri’s intense gaze, Victor hangs, suspended, not sure what will come next.

Yuuri’s fingers linger at the notch in his clavicle, so Victor’s do as well. When Yuuri smooths his thumb over the prominent line of his collarbone, Victor does the same. This slow, deliberate contact feels like a meditation, like all his nerves are concentrated in this small patch of skin. Yuuri doesn’t need to say anything. The way he’s touching Victor by proxy tells Victor all he needs to know.

Victor squeezes his eyes shut. It’s too much--the pendulum swing of his emotions today, that sinking in his chest when he’d thought Yuuri had had enough of him only to be surprised by this tenderness now--and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Mikhail,” he hears. Fuck, and Yuuri still doesn’t know who he really is. He’s directing all this care (all this love) at ordinary-guy Mikhail, who has time to go on vacation and plan picnics and go for walks on the beach because he isn’t spending all his time alone, driving himself--and an entire sport--to greater and greater heights. Victor Nikiforov doesn’t inspire this kind of softness. Victor Nikiforov is untouchable, both on the ice and off. 

“Yuuri,” he says, opening his eyes. “Yuuri, please--I can’t wait any longer.” He doesn’t know what he looks like, but Yuuri stumbles forward, eyes locked on Victor’s.

“Anything,” Yuuri says. “Tell me what you want.”

Victor turns away to scoop the condoms and lube from where he’d optimistically stashed them in the bedside drawer when he’d first gotten to Detroit.

“Like this,” he says, rolling onto his knees, facing away from Yuuri. He doesn’t think he can handle Yuuri looking at him right now. And he knows that he can’t bring himself to face those clear eyes that somehow manage to pierce right through to the heart of him.

“Uh. I don’t...” Yuuri starts. “Mikhail.” He sounds scared, but Victor buries his face in the pillow rather than meet his eyes.

“Just fuck me,” Victor says. “You’ve done this before. You know what to do.” He snaps open the lube and squeezes it into his hand. “I need this. I need you.” He works the lube in, stretching himself quickly. To be honest, he’s being too rough with himself, but he doesn’t deserve the gentleness he’s received from Yuuri today. He’s been lying to Yuuri since they first met, and Yuuri doesn’t even know. “Please.”

A hand settles on his hip, and he controls his instinctive flinch. He can take this. He needs to take this.

“Let me,” Yuuri says.

“Yeah. Do it. I’m ready.” Victor clenches both hands in the bedspread and waits. It feels like they’ve been building to this all day long. He’s so tired of worrying. He just wants Yuuri to fuck him, so he can stop thinking about all the ways he’s mishandled their friendship--lying to Yuuri about his identity, pushing his way into Yuuri’s life, forcing Yuuri to spend time with him.

“Tell me if...if I do anything wrong. If it hurts,” Yuuri says. Victor feels the head of Yuuri’s cock resting against him. Yuuri’s still so tentative--can’t he tell how badly Victor needs this?

“I will. But you won’t hurt me. Come on, please, fuck me,” Victor says. Yuuri starts to press in, and Victor bears down to make it easier. He really hasn’t stretched himself enough--he can feel every millimeter of Yuuri’s cock as it enters him--but he stifles his moans and tries to relax.

“Mikhail,” Yuuri groans. “You feel so good.”

“Yeah,” Victor says. “Come on. I can take it.”

Yuuri squeezes his hands on Victor’s hips, holding him still. “Wait, I need a moment. Just…” He inhales deeply and holds his breath. His thighs are hot against the inside of Victor’s legs, and his hands feel sweaty where they’re gripping Victor. He exhales slowly, and then as he inhales again, he pulls out of Victor. He takes a moment to catch himself and then he snaps his hips forward, driving himself back in with an explosive breath.

“Yes!” Victor feels like the words are punched out of him--like the energy from Yuuri’s thrusts needs to go somewhere and the only way to vent it is by screaming, crying, begging. “Yuuri, harder, come on--I need this, Yuuri, fuck me!”

Yuuri obliges by fucking him harder, grunting from the force of each stroke. “Mikhail...fuck, Mikhail, is this good, does this feel good?”

Victor doesn’t think he can put his thoughts into words, but he babbles something incoherent: “Oh god, harder, so good, please,” and Yuuri seems to understand--he keeps his impressive pace but fumbles one hand down to grope for Victor’s cock.

“Ah!” Victor cries out when Yuuri’s hand closes on his cock, and he thrusts his hips forward into Yuuri’s grip.

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “Yes, okay, okay, Mikhail, I’ve got you, come on!”

Victor’s face is damp, sweat running down from his hairline. Some of it may be tears, too, but not, like, emotion tears. These are exertion tears. Or they would be, if he were crying, which he’s not, because he isn’t feeling fucked up and vulnerable, he’s feeling fucked out and completely secure in all the stupid decisions he’s made since coming to the States.

Victor rocks his hips in time with Yuuri’s thrusts. He’s close to coming, desperate for the white-out blindness of his climax so he can stop thinking about how much he’s fucked this whole trip up and whether he should even try fixing it, if this is all he and Yuuri are ever going to have.

“I’m close,” he groans. “Yuuri, harder, I need this.”

“Me too,” Yuuri says. “I’ve got you, come on.”

Victor shouts into the pillow as he comes. Yuuri keeps going, rocking him back and forth as he thrusts into him, and Victor laces his fingers with Yuuri’s to pull his hand away from his cock. The sex is on the cusp of hurting--he’s wrung out, physically and emotionally, and he feels rubbed raw both by Yuuri’s cock and by his own self-flagellating--when Yuuri finally climaxes, gasping out, “Mikhail!” as he does.

Yuuri slumps over Victor’s back, dragging in deep, heaving breaths. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Was that okay?” He pushes himself back, pulling out of Victor.

Victor feels limp and exhausted. It’s too much work to roll over to face Yuuri, but he cranes his neck so he can meet Yuuri’s eyes. “I’m okay,” he says, squeezing the hand he’s still holding.

“Come on, lie down,” Yuuri says, guiding Victor’s hips and legs down to the bed. The bedspread has cum on it, and Victor winces as he lies full-length in it, but he doesn’t have the strength to protest and Yuuri doesn’t seem to realize.

Yuuri comes back with a warm washcloth and manhandles Victor onto his back to wipe him down. He frowns as he focuses on his task, and Victor reaches up to smooth away the furrow in his brow with his thumb.

“Hey. Are you okay?” he asks. He can’t tell what Yuuri’s thinking, but he doesn’t want him to be sad.

“Hmm, yeah,” Yuuri murmurs. “Come on, let’s get you under the covers.”

“Join me?” Victor asks. “You can find a t-shirt in the top dresser drawer if you don’t want to sleep in yours.”

“No, I should get home,” Yuuri says. “It’s late and I have class tomorrow.”

“You’re going to go home now? Are you...you’re not planning to take the bus, are you?”

“It’s not so bad. I can get some reading done on the ride,” Yuuri says.

“But.” Victor stops to gather his thoughts. Does Yuuri actually want to go? Is he so uncomfortable with Victor that he doesn’t feel like he can stay? “It’s so late. Are you...no. Stay, please, you can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the chair.”

“Mikhail, you’re exhausted. You can’t sleep on the chair.”

“Well, you can’t take the bus home at midnight! Please, just wait until morning--you don’t have to see me again after that but I can’t let you go home alone this late.”

“What?” Yuuri stares at Victor, eyes wide.

“Look, I know you don’t want this, but please, please just don’t leave tonight. You can have the bed--I can sleep on the floor or in a chair or something, just please stay.” Victor pushes himself upright in bed. “I promise I won’t do anything.”

“Mikhail, what do you mean?” Yuuri’s worry is bleeding into his voice.

“I know that I pushed you into seeing me today. And I’m sorry--I just wanted to see you so badly, and I know you just want to go home now, but can you please wait until morning? I won’t do anything, I swear, and I won’t contact you after that, but just. It’s not safe.”

“Mikhail.” Yuuri sounds overwhelmed. “I do want to see you again. I...you’re so incredible.”

“Then why are you _leaving_?”

“I’m...Mikhail. You’re going to leave.” Yuuri scrubs at his face, and when he pulls his hands away, Victor can see his eyes welling with tears. “You know this can’t go anywhere because you have your real life back in London, and I’m stuck here in Detroit pursuing a dream that I don’t even know will go anywhere!” 

“My life isn’t as great as you think it is,” Victor says. “I’ve been gone for weeks and no one back home has even noticed.”

“No, Mikhail, you’re beautiful, you’re amazing, you’re too good for me,” Yuuri says, and tears are streaming down his face as he tries to convince Victor that...what? That he’s so great that Yuuri doesn’t want to be with him?

Fuck, Victor’s going to start crying too at this rate. “How can you say that? You don’t even know who I _am_.” He blinks, and oh, there he goes, he really is crying now.

“You deserve better than this,” Yuuri says.

“Well, what if I want this? What if I don’t want my old life anymore, what if I just want to stay here with you?”

Yuuri wipes his face. He’s still crying a little, but not as furiously as when he was trying to convince Victor that this was for his own good. “I think maybe we should talk about this in the morning.”

“Are you going to stay?” 

“Yes. But I’ll take the chair. You stay in the bed.” Yuuri steps back and bends to pick up his clothes.

“No, wait, we can share the bed,” Victor says. “Just to sleep. And then...we can talk in the morning.”

Yuuri nods slowly. “Yes. But, uh.” He trails off, looking awkward and vulnerable, and drops his eyes to the shirt he’s holding. “Do you...Can you. Get dressed?” He twists his hands in the fabric. 

“Yeah. Okay.” Victor presses the back of his forearm to his eyes to blot away the tears--he knows better than to rub at the fine skin around his eyes--and slips out of the bed. Standing naked in front of Yuuri now, after the breakdown he’s just had, feels more difficult than anything else he’s ever done in his life, and that includes setting a world record when he was still a teenager.

“I, uh. My clothes are in there,” Victor says, gesturing to the dresser behind Yuuri. This is _painful_.

“Oh. Uh, sure.” Yuuri awkwardly sidesteps him and pulls his clothes on before getting into bed. 

Victor gets dressed quickly and comes back to the bed. Yuuri’s lying stiffly on his back, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Good night,” Victor says, turning off the light. 

“Good night,” Yuuri repeats.

It’s going to be a long night.


	7. Detroit, May 2015: Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that I updated the title! Who knows, maybe it'll change again if I think of something I like even better. For now, please enjoy this chapter--some things we have been waiting a long time for finally happen.

By the time Mikhail finally wakes up in the morning, Yuuri has already cleaned up the remains of their dinner from the night before, gotten dressed, brushed his teeth (stolen toothpaste on his finger), and gone through two cups of coffee from the coffeemaker in the room.

He’s trying to distract himself by looking over the readings for his afternoon class on his phone, but he keeps glancing over at where Mikhail is still sprawled on his back in bed, covers thrown off and mouth open. Yuuri does _not_ think it’s endearing, dammit. He’s just staring at him to see if he’s going to wake up soon, that’s all.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected that either of them would be able to sleep at all last night, but exhaustion seems to have won out over the awkwardness of lying in bed next to the guy he’d basically tried to fuck and run (ugh, why is he like this) the night before. Yuuri still just wants to get the fuck out of here, but Mikhail deserves a proper goodbye. And maybe a pep talk. Had Mikhail really said he wanted to stay here instead of going back home? What could be that bad about his life back home that he’d want to stay in _Detroit_?

“Yuuri,” Mikhail says, eyes finally open.

“Oh. Hey,” he says. “I made coffee?”

“Thanks.” Mikhail sits up in bed, looking soft and rumpled. “I’m just...let me get dressed.”

He disappears into the bathroom with an armful of clothes, and Yuuri busies himself pouring a cup of coffee for Mikhail. He also sets the percolator to brew another pot; he’s feeling queasy at the prospect of having this conversation with Mikhail, and the caffeine probably won’t help, but it gives him something to do while he waits.

All too soon, Mikhail emerges. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and a pair of gray trousers, and he looks good in a different way from how Yuuri’s used to seeing him. 

“Here,” Yuuri says, offering him the coffee he’d poured. “Or if you want to wait, I put on a fresh pot.”

“This is fine,” Mikhail says. He sits down in the other armchair across from Yuuri. “I...before we talk, there’s something I need to tell you.” He looks serious, and his outfit only adds to the impression. He looks like a hot stockbroker or something. Except he’s also parted his hair like Victor Nikiforov again, so maybe “wealthy playboy” is more accurate. Either way, he’s definitely too sexy to be hanging out with Yuuri.

“Sure, go ahead.” The coffee pot clicks off, and the silence yawns between them.

“Uh. I don’t know how to say this.” Mikhail looks at his hands. “Do you remember when we first met? You said I looked like Victor Nikiforov?”

“Yeah?” Can he read minds? How does he know Yuuri was just thinking he looked like the guy?

“Okay. Um. I am Victor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri feels his brain stalling. “What?”

“I’m, ah, actually a figure skater? I just won Worlds last month. That’s pretty much the end of the season, so a lot of us take a break around now because the competition circuit doesn’t really start back up in earnest until the autumn.”

Yuuri’s brain is still trying to reboot. What the fuck.

“I’m really sorry about lying to you.” Victor-- _Victor_ \--looks up from his lap and meets Yuuri’s eyes. “I just, I don’t know. I didn’t really want to be Victor Nikiforov anymore and when I met you and you didn’t seem to know who I was, I thought maybe this was my chance. To not be me.”

What the fuck, what the fuck, Yuuri named his _dog_ after him and he thinks Yuuri doesn’t know who he is.

“I fucked up. I’m sorry.” Mikhail—Victor—looks tired and sad, and Yuuri feels bad for him, but he really can’t be here right now. He needs to get the fuck out and process this without hot stockbroker Victor Nikiforov staring at him.

“I. I’m sorry, I have to go.” Yuuri’s winding up for a panic attack, and the last thing he wants is for Victor Nikiforov--Mikhail is _Victor Nikiforov_ , Yuuri fucked _Victor Nikiforov_ \--to see it.

“I understand. I’m sorry.” Victor stands up as Yuuri does. “I don’t expect...I don’t deserve to hear from you again.”

“No, I’ll. I’ll call you.” Yuuri tugs his shoes on without bothering to untie the laces. The left one is too tight, but he stamps down on the heel to wedge his foot in so he can just _go_. “Um. Bye.”

He glances up as he lets himself out of the room, and the sight he’s met with--Victor standing in his fancy outfit and bare feet, staring miserably at the floor with his shiny hair hiding his left eye--almost makes him turn back, but Yuuri is not fit to interact with human beings right now, so he leaves.

He catches himself on the street, close to hyperventilating. He was going to take the bus, but he doesn’t have the mental focus to wait patiently for it to come, and he sets off along the sidewalk to the next stop on the route.

How the fuck does he process this? These last two days have been a cascade of mind-warping discoveries: the first that Mikhail had come to town, then that Mikhail was actually super into Yuuri, the third that Yuuri was probably super into Mikhail too, and lastly the fourth--and most preposterous--that Mikhail was actually _Victor Nikiforov_.

Weirdly, Yuuri doesn’t have any doubts about this latest revelation. Far-fetched as it seems that the most famous ice skater in the world is in a three-star hotel in Detroit, having hand-fed Yuuri grapes last night before dropping his robe and dragging him to bed, it kind of _works_. Victor’s always been known for his surprises. What could be more surprising than this? 

Yuuri wonders if he should ask for proof. Why would someone lie about this, though? And what would he do if he gets proof? He’s not actually going to pursue a relationship with Victor Nikiforov. He doesn’t even feel worthy of one with Mikhail, and Mikhail’s just some hot guy who likes dogs as much as Yuuri does, not the inspiration for Yuuri’s entire career or anything.

Yuuri hates to admit it, but he needs some advice. He hopes he doesn’t regret this.

Phichit picks up instantly, of course. He’s never far from his phone.

“Hey. Is now a good time to talk?” Yuuri asks.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this, I will _make_ time. Are you and New York boy planning a 24-hour second date?”

“Ah. Well.” Should he tell Phichit? Victor’s a public figure, and Phichit is an incurable gossip. Yuuri doesn’t want for word to get out about Victor slumming it with some second-rate skater on his post-championship vacation. Far less for anyone else to hear about how apparently miserable Victor is, so much so that he threatened to abandon his career and, what, stay in Detroit with Yuuri? What the fuck.

“Yuuri!” Oh no, Phichit knows something. Yuuri can hear it in his voice.

“Yeah, okay, yeah. We’ve already had it. But that’s not--Phichit, I need you to promise you won’t share what I have to tell you. Please. This doesn’t just affect me.”

“Was I right about the drama?” Phichit sounds absolutely gleeful.

“You were right about the drama. But even you won’t be able to guess the full story.”

Phichit protests the requirement for secrecy—”But Yuuri! Your fans are starved of content! It’s my _duty_ to them to deliver it!”--but gives in when Yuuri refuses to even hint at what the news could be.

“Okay,” Yuuri begins. “Do you remember what I told you about Mikhail before?”

“Tall. Hot. Poor little rich boy,” Phichit recites, and Yuuri nearly hangs up right there.

“Phichit! I did _not_ say that.”

“It was heavily implied, come on,” Phichit protests. “But fine, you said he was hot and seemed kind of lonely.”

“Yeah. I found some more things out about him. Like that he’s famous.”

“ _No_. You banged a celebrity? Oh my god, have I heard of him? Do I know who he is?”

“You know who he is,” Yuuri confirms.

“I’m going to figure this out. Who’s famous and looks like Victor Nikiforov?”

“What? How did you know…”

“Please, Yuuri, you have a type. Everyone knows.”

“Well.” Yuuri squares his shoulders. “You’re not wrong.” It’s such a relief talking to Phichit. He’s always accepted and understood Yuuri, no matter how twisted-up his anxiety has made him, and that makes it a bit easier to start unwinding the massive ball of panic and fear inside him.

“I really fucked up, Phichit. I think I really hurt him.”

“Oh, Yuuri. What happened?”

“Well, I basically walked out on him when he told me who he was,” Yuuri admits. “After I cried all over him last night about how he’s going to leave me. And I made him cry, too. Ugh, and he also _fell in the river_ yesterday, so this has pretty much been the worst vacation ever for him.”

“Wow, Vacation Yuuri does _not_ fuck around. What happened to being sweet and inoffensive until he leaves?”

“Fuck, Phichit, how did I ever think I was going to be sweet and inoffensive? I’m a garbage monster. And I really liked him, too.” Yuuri pauses to press his hand to his eyes. He thinks maybe he hasn’t spent enough time thinking about discovery number three.

“Ah, Yuuri. So where do the two of you stand right now?” 

“Uh, I told him I’d call him and then I ran out the door? I’m walking home right now.”

“Yikes, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri actually isn’t walking, he’s standing on the sidewalk feeling sorry for himself, but he’s going to continue walking home. Soon. He should check the bus schedule.

“So...you’re ghosting him?” Phichit says. “Just want to make sure I get the ‘I told you so’ right.”

“No, I’m not ghosting him. Fuck, I’m not that much of an asshole.”

Phichit laughs. “You pushed him in the river and made him cry, you are totally an asshole. But I love you anyway.”

“I didn’t push him, he fell. It was a dog!” Yuuri looks over his shoulder to see if the bus is coming. “Ugh, Phichit, he’s so cute when he gets excited about dogs.”

“Okay, seriously, who is he? I want to check his Twitter feed.”

His Twitter feed. Victor Nikiforov’s Twitter feed. Holy shit, what if he’s posted about Yuuri? He knows Victor had posted an “offline for a while, see you when I get back” message after his win at Worlds, but it’s been a while since Yuuri’s checked in on him.

“Oh, shit, _I_ should check his Twitter feed,” Yuuri says, already pulling up Victor’s account on his phone. He doesn’t know what he’s hoping to see, but an old photo of Makkachin captioned, “Heading home soon and can’t wait to see my favorite girl!”, posted today, doesn’t really answer any of his questions.

“Can I call you back?” Yuuri asks. “I promise I’ll fill you in later.”

“Fine, fine, keep your secrets,” Phichit says.

“You’re the best. I promise I’ll tell you—I just, I’ve been a real dick to him and I should deal with that first.”

“You’re allowed to be a dick, Yuuri,” Phichit reminds him, and this is definitely part of why he’s such a good friend. “And you know you’re never as bad as you think you are.”

“You’re supposed to say that. But thank you.” Yuuri hangs up and pulls up the contact for “Mikhail New York”. This conversation is probably not going to go as well. 

Victor picks up almost immediately. “Yuuri?”

Now that Yuuri’s listening for it, he can kind of hear Victor’s inflections in Mikhail’s voice. In the last few years--since Victor started the winning streak that won him his fourth world championship a month ago--he’s been very thoughtful and composed in his interviews. It’s only in the Instagram stories of him goofing off at the rink or playing with his dog that Yuuri’s heard the laughter he’s used to from Mikhail. 

“I’m so sorry for leaving,” Yuuri blurts out. “Are you—can I come back?”

“You—you want to come back? I mean, yes! Of course you can come back! I’m still here. I’m just packing.”

“I’m not far. I won’t take long.” Yuuri’s already backtracking, so eager to be on his way that he jogs across the road as the light changes. 

Now that he’s decided he needs to talk to Victor face-to-face, he wants to do it as soon as possible. Dwelling on how the conversation will go will only stress him out more. 

In barely any time, he’s back in front of Victor’s hotel room door, swallowing deeply before he knocks on it.

Victor opens the door immediately, as if he’s been waiting for Yuuri. “Come in! Hi, come in,” he says. He sounds nervous.

“Thanks.” Yuuri bends down to take off his shoes, and when he stands back up, Victor is right in front of him, passport in hand. 

“In case you thought I was lying earlier.” It’s open to his photo--definitely not one that Yuuri’s ever seen before, and Yuuri’s seen every publicly available picture of Victor Nikiforov (including obscure Russian ad campaigns that weren’t even available in Japan and that he’d had to special-order through dodgy fanboards before Victor’s career really started taking off). In the photo, Victor looks serious and somewhat dour as he stares into the camera. The text is in English and Cyrillic, and Yuuri recognizes the birthdate and place of birth from his own fanboy obsession with the details of Victor’s life. 

“I believed you,” Yuuri says. “But thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Victor says. “I know I said it a lot, but I really didn’t mean to deceive you.”

“I think I understand,” Yuuri says. “Can I come in?” He won’t blame Victor if he doesn’t want Yuuri in his room. Victor’s things are all over the place, like he’d hauled everything out of the dresser and closet as soon as Yuuri had walked out the door. Between the stacks of clothes on the bed and chairs, the giant suitcase open on the floor, and the shoes haphazardly piled under the coffee table (how many shoes does a guy need on vacation? Yuuri can see at least six pairs), Yuuri isn’t sure that there’s any room for him.

“Oh! Yes, please.” Victor steps back and then seems to see the mess of the room. “Sorry! Sorry, let me…” He strides across the room and scoops the clothes off the armchairs. “Please don’t mind the mess. I’m just, I booked a flight home for tonight, so I need to make sure I have everything.”

“Tonight?” Yuuri repeats, when what he really wants to ask is _Already_? 

“Well.” Victor shrugs. “I called my coach. I didn’t think...I bought a new SIM when I came here. I forgot--”

“To give him the number,” Yuuri realizes. “I’m glad. I mean--I’m not glad you forgot, it’s just. I’m glad that you do have people who knew you were gone.”

“Yes. Sorry about that! I’m fine!” He sounds very cheerful, but Yuuri’s listening to him now—properly listening—and he can hear how forced it sounds. 

“So you’re going…” Yuuri trails off. 

“Home,” Victor says. “St. Petersburg. Uh, I don’t live in London—that was, well. Something else I lied about.” He looks unhappy. “I guess I lied about a lot of things.”

“You didn’t lie about the important things. Like your dog. And your job.” Yuuri gestures to the chair that Victor’s cleared. “Can we sit down?”

“Oh! Of course.” Victor waits for Yuuri to sit before joining him. “Sorry. I know I made it sound like I had some kind of stressful, high-powered job, but I’m, you know. A figure skater.”

“A figure skater,” Yuuri repeats. “You’re _Victor Nikiforov_.”

“A very good figure skater?”

Yuuri laughs. For all his fantasies about finally meeting and talking to this man, he’d never imagined having to reassure him about his place in history. 

“I never thought about how hard it must be,” Yuuri says. “Being the best. Having to keep being the best.”

“Oh. Well. It’s not as bad as I made it sound, I promise!”

“I first saw you skate when I was twelve years old,” Yuuri admits. “I still remember it. Your Lilac Fairy program.”

“Wow. Yuuri, really?”

“Yeah. You’ve inspired me for so long. I’ve admired you since I first saw you, you know.”

Victor looks stunned, and Yuuri feels a thrill go through him at having said something Victor didn’t expect. This isn’t going to be the last time he surprises Victor, Yuuri promises himself. 

“Did you know who I am?” Victor asks. “Have you known all along?”

“No,” Yuuri says. “I wouldn’t have ever thought--I really did think you were Mikhail from London.” He pauses, weighing whether Victor will be able to take a joke at his expense, before just going for it. “Who doesn’t use social media.” 

“Oh!” Victor exclaims. “A low blow! I guess you know my Twitter handle.”

“And your Instagram. And your dog’s Instagram,” Yuuri tells him.

“I nearly said her name so many times!” Victor says. “But so many people know her, so I knew I had to be careful or you’d put it together.”

“I’m so glad I didn’t tell you to follow your own dog on Instagram!” Yuuri says. “When you said you didn’t know who to follow, she was at the top of my list.”

“Yuuri! I _wish_ you’d told me to follow Makkachin! Who else would have been on the list? I already follow a lot but new dogs are always welcome.”

“Well, I have a soft spot for poodles,” Yuuri admits. “Actually...I don’t know if you noticed, but I was being careful not to say my dog’s name either.”

Victor gasps. “Is he Insta-famous? Do I already follow him?”

Yuuri ducks his head. He has to say it, but this is going to be so embarrassing. “No. He really doesn’t have an account. But his name...he’s named Victor.”

Victor squeaks and grabs Yuuri’s knee. “Is he named after _me_?” There are honest-to-god stars in his eyes.

“Yeah.” He covers his face with his hands. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I didn’t want to weird you out when I thought you were still Mikhail, but he’s actually named after _you_ —“

“This is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard,” Victor says fervently. 

Yuuri should have known, really. That cheerful, unquestioning enthusiasm for everything Yuuri’s told him—his patience with Yuuri’s indecision, his acceptance of Yuuri’s fears—that’s all Victor. Nothing about Mikhail was an affectation. Even the sadness that showed itself occasionally, his dissatisfaction with his accomplishments and drive for something more meaningful. Victor has more depth than Yuuri had guessed when he was just staring at his posters on the wall.

“His namesake isn’t so bad either,” Yuuri says, and it’s worth it for the way it makes Victor blush. 

“Do you think I might meet him someday?” Victor asks tentatively. 

Yuuri pauses. He hasn’t thought that far ahead—Victor meeting Vicchan also means Victor meeting his family and learning more about Yuuri as a figure skater. He’s been working so hard, but he’s still not good enough to meet Victor on the ice. 

“Not yet,” Yuuri says. “I want that—I want that so badly—but I’m not ready for it.”

“Will you let me know when you are ready?” Victor is looking at him with so much tenderness—no demands, no expectations.

Yuuri has spent so many years thinking of what he needs to do to be worthy of Victor. The time he’s spent with Victor-as-Mikhail, talking with him, holding him--it feels like he’s used a cheat code to jump to the final cutscene of a game when he’d barely managed to get past the first level on his own.

“It might be a long time,” Yuuri says. He still has so much more to do. 

“You’re worth waiting for,” Victor says, and Yuuri feels sick at the thought of making him wait. Making him compete for even longer, when he’s already admitted how tired he is.

“You have to keep skating.” Yuuri isn’t crying, but his voice is thick when he says, “So I can find you. Please.”

He feels horrible for even asking. It’s such a huge demand. But Victor smiles and says, “You’ll find me. I’ll make it easy for you to find me. But you have to do your part too. This season is for you, so watch me.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says. He gropes for Victor’s hand and squeezes it. “I will, I promise. I won’t take my eyes off you.”

After that, there isn’t much to say. Victor still has to pack, and Yuuri still has that phone call he’d promised Phichit, and so Victor kisses him goodbye very chastely and Yuuri walks out the door. He takes the stairs so no one sees how wet his eyes are. 

If Victor’s skating for him this season, then this is the season he’s going to meet him on the ice. He’s ready. He’s been working toward this for so long, and yes, he’d thought he had more time but he’s not going to keep Victor waiting. They’re both ready.


	8. St. Petersburg, October 2015: Victor

So Victor goes back to St. Petersburg. He accepts the tongue-lashing he gets from Yakov and the ribbing from his rinkmates--“Oh, you know how forgetful I am, I didn’t realize I’d been gone so long!”--and he scraps the free skate he’d been working on because now he _knows_ what he wants to skate. 

He’s sending a message. He may have told Yuuri he’d wait for him, but he never promised to wait patiently. Yuuri said he’d be watching, so Victor’s going to make sure that he can’t look away.

_Stammi Vicino Non Te Ne Andare_ takes everything Victor’s feeling following his too-brief escape from his life and crams it into a soaring, ambitious program. Four quads--four _different_ quads--in addition to his breakneck step sequences and spins. It’s insane. It’s overkill. He can’t imagine any of his competitors doing something like this--Christophe, who comes closest to matching his technical skill, doesn’t have the masochism that drives Victor to skate something so punishing, and most of the others simply don’t have the jumps.

The program isn’t just about showing off, though. It’s a little bit about showing off, of course, but more than that, and what he hopes Yuuri will see, is the loneliness at its core. He’d been so lost after his victory at World’s, searching for something he didn’t even understand and somehow finding it in a kindred spirit. 

_Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?_ And you, have you also been abandoned? Every time he hears that melancholy plea, his heart seizes in recognition of that aching loneliness.

_Non te ne andare/Ho paura di perderti._ Don’t leave me. I’m afraid of losing you. He can let the song say the things he wishes he could have said to Yuuri. He knows Yuuri wasn’t ready to hear them then--in the short time he’s spent with him, he’s learned that Yuuri needs to be allowed to open up on his own--but he still hopes that by the time he debuts the program, Yuuri will be ready to understand and accept these words.

And then, the end: _Partiamo insieme/Ora sono pronto._ We leave together. I’m ready now. Victor’s ready. He’s been ready for so long. And Yuuri promised that he will be, too.

He’s behind where he usually is by this point in the year, having discarded everything he’d been working on before his break. It’s still worth it. Once he’d found the music, the choreography flowed like water, pouring out of him. Yakov thinks he’s being reckless--the program doesn’t need this level of difficulty, and it’s hard on him to skate it with the beauty it deserves when it demands so much of him technically--but Victor’s set on it as it is. Beautiful and impossible. This is the Victor Nikiforov that stunned the world (including, apparently, Yuuri) in 2006, and this is the Victor Nikiforov he will be again. And again, and again, as many times as he needs to be for Yuuri to find him once more.

In late June, the Grand Prix assignments come out. He’ll get his qualifications done early, it seems--he’s assigned to Skate Canada and the Trophée de France, the second and fourth competitions this year. Will Yuuri be watching? Skate Canada isn’t being held too far from Detroit (Victor checked) but he doesn’t know if it’s weird to ask him to come.

There are a lot of new names on the list this year. One of the Japanese skaters is even named Yuri, though he doesn’t spell it the same way as his Yuuri. It still makes Victor feel warm inside. Good luck, Other-Yuri, he thinks. Though maybe Plisetsky should be Other-Yuri, and this new guy can be Other-Other-Yuri. 

He brings it up during a shared practice. Yuri’s been training with the seniors recently, and Victor’s pretty sure Yakov is only letting him because he doesn’t want Yuri sneaking in after hours, which he will if he doesn’t get the amount of practice time he’s convinced he needs.

“Did you know there’s another Yuri in the Grand Prix this year?” Victor announces to the rink at large. “We’ll have to come up with a way to tell them apart.”

“What the hell are you talking about, old man?” Yuri demands. “I’m Yuri. This imposter can get a different name.”

“I think we should call you Other-Yuri,” Victor says. “What do you think, Kosta?”

Kosta, who’s been on the wrong side of Yuri’s sharp tongue too many times (deservedly so--his spins travel too much and he doesn’t have half the control during them that Yuri does, despite having been doing this for much longer), just shrugs and and skates away. 

Mila is always happy to tease the kitten, though, and she sweeps over to wrap her arm around Yuri’s neck. “Other-Yuri!”

“Get off me!” he snarls, shoving at her, but she just glides backward and swoops around to grab him from the other side.

“We’ll have to change your ISU registration,” Mila says. “How do we say it in English? Yuri Two?”

“I’m not going to be Yuri Two! Make him be the other Yuri!”

“You should respect your elders, Yuri Two,” Victor says. “He’s already in seniors, you know.”

“I should be in seniors! I will kick your ass!” Yuri yells.

Yakov comes in at this point and he yells the loudest of them all, so the subject is quickly dropped. For weeks after, though, Mila and Victor take turns adding “2” after Yuri’s name everywhere they see it written down (she even sticks a post-it with his new name on it to the collection of Yuri’s medals in Yakov’s office, and Yuri’s face when Yakov asks him about it is worth all the ones he never noticed).

By the autumn, Victor’s programs are solid. He’s been keeping them under wraps--even on Instagram, where he usually teases his programs, he’s been careful not to reveal very much about what he’ll actually be skating. The closest he’s come has been the picture of Makkachin in her copy of his Stammi Vicino costume--if Yuuri’s still following her account, maybe he’ll get the message. Victor’s still skating. Yuuri can still find him.

October brings the start of the Grand Prix series. Mila insists on organizing a viewing party for Skate America, the first competition of the circuit, because the Other-Other-Yuri is skating in it and in her words, “Yuri Two needs to see who he’s coming in second to.”

The actual event ends at midnight in Russia, but Mila records it and invites them to come around lunchtime the day after. Victor had planned to watch the series on his own to make notes on his competitors’ routines, but Yuri needs a ride to Mila’s, so he agrees to join them for the afternoon.

“What the hell, did you invite everyone?” Yuri demands as he walks into Mila’s place with Victor. He’s carrying four bags of chips that he refuses to hand off to Mila’s roommate, Katya, and it would seem like overkill except it looks like Mila’s crammed most of the rink into her living room.

“Yuri Two is here!” Mila exclaims, sticking her head out of the kitchen. She waves an oven-mitted hand hello before turning back to whatever she’s making.

“I’m not Yuri Two! I’m the only Yuri,” Yuri says, but it’s drowned out by Kosta and Dima’s cries of, “Yuri Two!”

“Have a drink!” Kosta adds, holding up his cup.

Victor snags Yuri’s elbow before he beelines to the table with the booze on it. “Careful, Yuri Two,” he says, mostly for the way it makes Yuri scowl. “You don’t want to overdo it.”

“Mind your own business, old man,” Yuri growls, but he pours himself a cup of Diet Coke and goes to join the group on the sofa, still clutching his bags of chips. A couple of other juniors are here, but most of the people in attendance are senior skaters. He hopes they remember to look out for the younger ones.

Victor goes to see if Mila needs any help, but she loads him down with a plate of meatballs and shoos him out of the kitchen. “Take this to the table and go sit down. And get yourself a drink!”

Georgi is sitting at the table, engrossed in his phone, when Victor puts the meatballs down. Victor’s honestly surprised to see him here--since he started dating Anya, he hasn’t had much time for the rest of them, leaving right from practice to go meet her and turning down invitations to go out with the rest of the team. It doesn’t look like she’s here today, though.

“You’re not watching?” Victor asks.

“It’s just fluff about the other skaters right now,” Georgi says. He shrugs and puts his phone face-down to look at Victor. “You know. What are you excited about, how do you feel about your chances, that sort of thing.” 

“Yuri One!” comes a cry from the sofa.

“Shut up, shut up, I’m Yuri One, this asshole is Yuri Two!” Yuri shouts over the others.

“Is this the skater you stole your name from?” Victor calls over his shoulder. He can’t see the screen, but he’ll check the guy out later--right now, winding Yuri up is way more fun.

“He stole _my_ name--” Yuri starts, but Katya interrupts him with, “He’s 22 and you’re only 14! He’s been Yuri for much longer than you have.”

“He’s Yuri One!” Kosta agrees, and Victor turns around in time to see Yuri swing one of his bags of potato chips at his head.

Kosta fends him off, laughing, but Victor sighs and gets up to intervene. 

“Time to be a grown-up,” Georgi observes. Technically, Georgi is one day older than Victor, but Victor is Yuri’s ride home, so he’s on cat-herding duty for the day.

“You could help,” Victor says. 

“Oh no, world champion, he’s all yours,” Georgi replies. He says this sort of thing occasionally, and Victor doesn’t know if it’s purely in fun or if there’s any actual resentment behind it.

Victor comes up behind Yuri on the sofa and grabs the chips from him. “That’s not how we share food, Yuri Two,” he says.

“Fuck off, old man, you and this shitty name-stealer belong together,” Yuri says.

“Yuri One is a fan of yours!” Katya explains. 

“Clearly he’s the superior Yuri,” Victor says. He looks up at the screen to catch a glimpse of the guy, and it’s. What the fuck. The guy looks like his Yuuri.

“Any last words for your fans?” the commentator asks.

“Thank you for supporting me,” Yuri One--Yuri Katsuki--says. “I promise to do my best.”

“Back to you, James,” the commentator says, and Victor squeezes his hands on the back of the sofa to hold himself upright on his wobbly knees.

“That was Yuri One?” he asks. He hopes the rest of them can’t hear how shaky his voice is.

“Yeah,” Katya says. “Mila! Get in here! It’s going to start soon.”

“Coming!” Mila carries in four folding chairs, holding them all herself even though she’s barely tall enough to keep them from scraping the floor. “Georgi! Bring the dining chairs in!”

Victor steps away from the couch to help her set up the folding chairs. Did he just see that? Did they all just see that?

As soon as everyone’s attention is back on the screen, Victor pulls out his phone. He hadn’t looked up Yuri One before--to be honest, he hadn’t actually thought much about Yuri One before this, except as a vehicle for annoying Yuri. The other Yuri. Plisetsky.

He finds Katsuki’s bio on the Skate America site. The photo of him on the ice, his arm outstretched—this is Victor’s Yuuri. Yuuri from Detroit. “I’ll see you again” Yuuri. “I watched you skate when I was 12” Yuuri. What the _fuck_. 

“Oh, did you see that!” Mila exclaims, and Victor catches himself staring blankly at the screen, having missed whatever she was so excited about. One of the Americans is skating. Victor’s seen him before--he doesn’t have a lot of artistry but he jumps aggressively. Victor doesn’t remember his name. 

Victor can’t focus on the broadcast. He has too much to think about--Yuuri’s a skater? He’s in the Grand Prix? He never said a thing. 

The competition passes in a blur, except for when Yuuri is skating. He’s beautiful. Incredible. He two-foots one of his triples and doesn’t have any quads beside the toe loop, but his expressiveness and grace carry him to the second-highest score of the day. 

Victor lingers after the broadcast ends, helping Mila and Katya tidy up while the other skaters file out. Should he message Yuuri? He still has his number. The other skaters said that Yuuri mentioned Victor in his pre-skate interview--that must mean something. He must have known Victor would see it.

“Are you going to record the free too?” Yuri demands. He’s finally opened one of his bags of chips and grudgingly allowed Mila to put them in a bowl to share, though hardly anyone is left to eat them.

“Do you want to watch it?” she asks. “I guess you can come here again.”

“I’m competing next week,” Victor says. “I can’t take another day off.” Also, he plans to stay up tonight to watch the free. He needs to see Yuuri skate again as soon as he can.

“Ugh, how am I supposed to get here if you’re not coming?”

“Don’t worry, Yuri Two, we’ll make sure you get to see Yuri One tomorrow! Katya can probably pick you up,” Mila says. 

“Are you a fan now?” Katya asks. “He is good. Somehow I thought he’d skate more like you, but he’s not that kind of skater at all.”

“He’s what the sport should be,” Victor says, surprising himself. “We should all be that kind of skater.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Old man, are you turning into Yakov on us?”

“No, this is Victor’s lament,” Georgi says, looking up from his phone. “Haven’t you heard the King of Quads go on about how we care too much about jumps?”

“Yeah, well, that loser can barely jump,” Yuri says. “He doesn’t deserve to share my name.”

“He can skate, though,” Victor says. “Did you see how clean his edges were? And how fast his step sequence was? You could do with that kind of control, Yuri Two.”

“It sounds like Victor’s a fan!” Katya says.

“Well, he’s a very talented skater. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him in the final,” Victor says, and maybe he’s giving too much away, but he can’t help but praise Yuuri. He wants to tell _everyone_ how good he is.

“Tch,” Yuri spits. “If he makes it in, it’ll only be because everyone else fucks up.”

“A challenge!” Mila says. “It’s a shame you can’t challenge him directly, but Victor will have to do it for you.”

Victor laughs out loud at the look on Yuri’s face. “You’ve short-circuited him, Mila. Solidarity with Team Yuri or with Mother Russia, how can you make him choose?”

“You losers! I don’t want either of you to win! I should be competing and then I would win!” Yuri jams his feet in his shoes. “Why am I still hanging out with you assholes? Victor! Let’s go!”

Victor follows him out, sharing a grin with Mila as he leaves. He drops Yuri off and it’s so hard not to say anything more to him about his Yuuri, even though all he wants to do is gush about Yuuri’s short program and speculate on his free skate. Yuuri’s going to be skating again _tonight_. Victor can’t wait to see it.


	9. Chicago, October 2015: Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends, I've updated the tags--a few of you have asked about Vicchan, and I don't want you to be blindsided by his death. If you need to stop reading, I completely understand. In the meantime, though, please enjoy.

Holy shit. Yuuri has a Grand Prix silver medal. He’s actually done it.

He presses his hands to his face to ground himself. He’s been working so hard this season, and despite the setbacks--scrapping the music he and Ketty had been working on, training so hard to get the quad sal and still not being able to reliably land it--it feels like he’s finally achieving some kind of success. 

“Do you want to stay and watch the ice dancers?” Celestino asks. “We have some time before your exhibition skate.”

Holy shit, his exhibition skate. As the silver medalist, he gets to perform _in the exhibition_ tonight.

“No,” Yuuri says. “I think I want to lie down for a bit.” He hasn’t checked his phone yet, but he’s sure he’s got at least a dozen messages from the other skaters back in Detroit. And he still has to call his mom--it’s nearly time for her to get up by now. She would have been sleeping while he was actually skating, but he can’t wait to tell her how well he did.

“Yuuri! Are you really going to sleep through your first time at Skate America?” Phichit pleads. “You can nap on the drive home!”

“You can stay,” Yuuri says. “I can go back to the hotel myself.”

“Is this an ‘I need to be alone’ nap or do you want me to come with you?” Phichit aks. “I will do whatever the Skate America silver medalist wants!”

“I’m just going to call my mom,” Yuuri says. “It’ll be pretty boring.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Phichit says. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Honestly, Yuuri doesn’t deserve a friend like this. “I don’t actually want to be alone,” he admits. “But I don’t want you to miss anything here either--it’s your first time here too.”

“Psh, I’ll enjoy Skate America when I get a medal here,” Phichit says. “Let’s get room service. Ciao Ciao, do you want to come with us?”

Their coach waves them off, explaining that he wants to catch up with some people he knows, and Yuuri and Phichit head off together.

Back at the hotel room, Yuuri and Phichit order sandwiches through room service (with fries for the silver medalist, at Phichit’s insistence).

“Okay,” Phichit says. “Time to face your adoring public.”

“My adoring public is my mom,” Yuuri says. “I promised her I’d call after the competition.”

“First you need to update your Twitter. You just won a medal! People are going to be talking about you!” Phichit shoves his phone in Yuuri’s face. “Here, log in on my phone so I can do it for you while you’re talking to your mom.”

It’s routine for them; as Yuuri’s self-appointed social media manager, Phichit knows what kind of content skating fans want to see and what Yuuri’s fans specifically are interested in. And as Yuuri’s best friend, Yuuri trusts Phichit not to do him dirty.

Yuuri dismisses his message notifications--clearly a lot of people were watching. He figures he can deal with them during the drive back, when he’ll be bored enough that copy and pasting “Thank you for your support!” will seem like a good way to spend his time. 

For now, he needs to call home. The call goes quickly--Yuuri’s mom is thrilled to hear that he’s done so well, but he heads off her excitement by reminding her that he still has one more competition before he can even think about the Final.

“At least the NHK Trophy is in the same time zone as you,” Yuuri says. “The website will have a livestream so you can watch it, but ask Minako-sensei if you can’t figure it out.”

“Of course we’re going to watch, Yuuri!” his mother says. “I only wish we could go and see you, but it’s so far.”

“That’s okay. I know you’ll be watching,” Yuuri says. “I’ll talk to you before then, but I’ll also call when I get to Sapporo, okay?”

“Do your best, Yuuri!” his mother says. “We love you.”

“Thank you for supporting me,” Yuuri says. “I love you, too. Say hi to Dad and Mari for me.”

She promises to pass on his love (he suspects that all the neighbors are going to be hearing about how much he appreciates them, too), and he hangs up with a sigh. It’s even more painful to call and be reminded how much he misses his home and his family than to miss them without reaching out at all.

“So for your tweet,” Phichit says. “Medal selfie? Or action shot? There’s a good one of your Ina Bauer here, look.” He holds his phone up to Yuuri, having loaded up the news coverage of the event. 

“What about the photo from the podium? I don’t want to post a picture of just me, that’s weird.”

“Yuuri. It’s your Twitter account.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what kind of face he makes, but Phichit sighs and says, “Fine, podium shot. But I’m posting something from your ex skate later and you can’t stop me!”

Yuuri tries to make the same face again, but maybe it doesn’t work if it’s on purpose because Phichit just scowls at him and finishes filling out the tweet.

“Here, I pulled up the Japanese keyboard so you can translate it,” Phichit says, passing his phone back to Yuuri.

It’s a short, simple tweet--having to tweet in two languages means there’s even less room to express himself, but Yuuri’s glad he has the character limits as an excuse not to try to be clever or funny.

“Did you reply to everything for me?” Yuuri asks.

“Oh!” Phichit snatches his phone back. “I saved one for you. You know you’ve made it when…” and he dramatically presents his phone to Yuuri, hands framing the tweet he’s showing off.

“Fuck,” Yuuri says.

Victor tweeted about Skate America. Victor _watched_ Skate America.

It’s generic, just “Excited by the strong start to the Grand Prix! Congrats to the winners of Skate America!”, but he’s hashtagged the winners’ names. He’s hashtagged _Yuuri’s_ name. 

“I don’t think you need to respond to it, but you deserve the honor of actually liking it,” Phichit explains.

“Did he...he didn’t say anything else, did he?” Yuuri asks. 

“What, like a marriage proposal?” Phichit says. “I think you’re going to have to wait for the final for that.”

“No, I mean--did he send a DM, or anything?”

“You’re being kind of weird about this, Yuuri,” Phichit says. 

Yuuri is being totally weird about this. 

The thing is, he still hasn’t told Phichit about Mikhail-slash-Victor. After he left Victor’s hotel room, he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it, and the longer he went without mentioning it, the harder it was to bring it up.

“Sorry. I just can’t believe everything that’s happened today.” Yuuri looks down at his own phone and pulls up Victor’s account to reread the tweet. It’s still incredible that Victor mentioned his name. Could he have been watching? Wouldn’t he have tried to reach out to Yuuri if he’d seen him?

“Best season ever, did I tell you?” Phichit says. “You’re going to kill it in Japan.”

“I hope so. I wish I didn’t have to wait so long for the NHK Trophy,” Yuuri says. He flicks through the open apps on his phone. So many messages to reply to--could any of them be from Victor? 

“I should go through these,” Yuuri says, still looking down at his phone. 

“Do you want me to do it for you? I cleared your Twitter DMs.”

“I just…” Yuuri trails off, scrolling through the texts on his phone. There’s nothing from “Mikhail New York”, but there are three numbers that aren’t in his contact list.

“Congratulations.”  
“It was nice meeting you.” from the Chinese skater who’d come in fourth today--oh, Yuuri had meant to save that contact.

“You were amazing!!!” from a classmate in Detroit--how did she even get his number?

And. Holy shit.

“YUURI”  
“I SAW YOU SKATE”  
“YOU’RE A SKATER”  
“YOUR TRIPLE AXLE!!!”  
“Can you come to Canada? I’m at Skate Canada next week”  
“It’s Victor by the way”  
“You said I’d see you again but not like this!!!”  
“Your skating is so beautiful!”  
“I checked, you can drive there from Detroit”  
“I’m going to bed now but let me know about Skate Canada! I can get you tickets”  
“But only if you want to!”

Victor saw him skate. He invited Yuuri to come see _him_ skate. Yuuri has Victor Nikiforov’s _phone number_. 

Yuuri carefully puts his phone face-down on the bed. 

“Yuuri?” Phichit says. “Is everything okay?”

Yuuri shakes his head. Then he bends over to hide his face in his hands and says, “I think this is the best day of my life?”

“Yuuri, remember how I said you were being kind of weird earlier?”

“Victor texted,” Yuuri says, still talking to his knees. “He asked me to come see him skate next week.”

“Sorry, what?” Phichit says.

Yuuri looks up just enough to nudge his phone toward Phichit, who doesn’t hesitate to unlock it and skim the open conversation.

“Yuuri, what the _fuck_.”

Breathing into his hands is getting kind of stuffy. Yuuri sits up properly. “You remember Mikhail? The guy from New York?”

Phichit laughs, but it sounds kind of hysterical. “Is this really how you tell me that you hooked up with Victor Nikiforov back in April?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Do you want to go to Skate Canada with me next week? Victor says he can get us tickets.”

“No. No, you do not get to pretend that any of this is normal,” Phichit says.

“I guess he really does keep an eye on the competition,” Yuuri says. 

“Yuuri, I am going to kill you and take your medal, what is _happening_.” Phichit shakes Yuuri’s phone in his face. “You Vacation-Yuuri’d your way into bed with Victor Nikiforov and now he wants to take you to _Canada_?”

“I guess so,” Yuuri says. He can’t stop smiling. Holy shit, it was real. That insane, impulsive, weekend-long first date in New York. That disastrous second date in Detroit and its anguished morning-after confession. All of it. It happened. And Victor still wants to talk to him. He still wants to _see_ him.

“Ugh, I only ever see you like this when you’re talking about Victor. You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. He takes his phone back from Phichit and scrolls back to the photo buried in his photo roll from that day at Belle Isle. The two of them, faces pressed against each other, Victor grinning exuberantly and Yuuri looking soft and shy and happy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it earlier,” Yuuri says, showing Phichit the picture. “It’s just...he’s not like what I thought he’d be. It didn’t feel right to talk about him like that. And then it started feeling like I’d made it up, so it felt weird talking about it.”

“You are the worst best friend I’ve ever had,” Phichit says.

“Worst best friend who’s taking you to Skate Canada?”

“Worst best friend who’s forgotten I need a visa to cross the border,” Phichit points out. “Have fun taking Ciao Ciao along on your date.”

“Uh.” Yuuri has maybe not thought this through.

“Seriously, though, are you going to go?” Before Yuuri can start to worry that he doesn’t approve, Phichit adds, “I think you should.”

“I don’t know.” Yuuri fidgets with his phone, going back to the series of texts from Victor. “I kind of thought I’d see him at the final.” 

It sounds stupid now. Of course Victor was going to watch the rest of the series. But when Yuuri had seen that none of their assignments overlapped, he’d thought that maybe he’d be able to surprise him at the final--maybe they’d run into each other at the arena, and Victor would assume Yuuri had come to see him, but then Yuuri would flash his competitor’s badge and say something suave like, “Should I be worried that you’re following me?” or whatever, he’ll figure it out later and he’ll sound very cool and Victor will be completely stunned.

Not that he isn’t stunned now. Eleven texts in a span of six minutes is definitely evidence of “stunned”.

“What should I say to him?” Yuuri asks. “I mean, besides whether I go or not. I don’t want him to think I’m ignoring him.”

“You’ve got some time,” Phichit reassures him. “It’s the middle of the night there. Have a nap, do your ex skate, send him pics from it.”

“I’ll text him pics of my ex skate if you promise not to put them on Twitter,” Yuuri says immediately. 

“I’ll put them on Twitter first and tag him,” Phichit threatens. “You don’t have any room to negotiate. But if you nap now I won’t post anything until after you approve it.”

Yuuri sighs and nods, and Phichit gathers up his phone and their room service dishes. “I’ll come back in an hour and we can head back to the arena together,” Phichit says as he leaves the room.

Yuuri takes off his glasses and lies back against the pillows. Taking a nap before he replies to Victor’s texts sounds like a good idea. And this way he has time to figure out how to convince his coach that he’s planning to cross the border--by himself--for career development and not a booty call.


	10. St. Petersburg, October 2015: Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story! We're so close to the end! But first, let's have two foolish boys finally learning to talk to each other without any barriers.

Victor wakes up to three photos of Yuuri on the ice in a costume he hasn’t seen before and a text that says, “I don’t know if you saw my exhibition skate, but my friend took a couple of photos during it.”

And: “I want to see you skate next week.”

And: “I’m glad you liked my performance. I’m going to be at the NHK Trophy too, so please watch.”

Victor’s going to scream. Or cry. Or something. 

It really was him. He knew it was, of course--now that he’s seen Yuuri skate, he can see the grace he carried even when Victor thought he was just an ordinary college student, the long athletic lines of his body, the strength in his arms and legs.

It’s still good to have the confirmation.

“Makkachin,” he says out loud. “Yuuri’s going to see me skate _Stammi Vicino_.” 

She huffs at him from the foot of the bed but doesn’t move.

“If you come here, you can see how handsome he looks in his exhibition skate,” Victor says. He’s found a YouTube video of it. He doesn’t think Makkachin will appreciate it as much as he will, but it’s only polite to offer.

She shifts a bit to lean more heavily against his leg.

“Oh well, you’re missing out.” Yuuri’s skate is beautiful--the same grace that imbues all his movements, set to something bright and silly. He looks like he’s having fun out there. It’s not a very technical skate, but it’s still compelling to watch.

“He’s so good, Makkachin!” Victor says. “What’s the time in Detroit? Do you think he’s still awake?” 

He looks it up and finds that Detroit is eight hours behind St. Petersburg. And if Yuuri’s staying an extra night in Chicago, that’s another hour behind. He very likely is still awake.

“I saw your ex skate!” Victor texts. “Are you awake? Can you talk?”

The response comes immediately: “We’re still on the road--heading back to Detroit now. Probably another three hours to go. Can I call you when I get home?” 

Victor pauses to think over his schedule. He’ll be at the rink then, but he can sneak away to take a call.

“Yes! Please call!” he texts back. “But only if you’re not too tired. It will be late for you!”

“I’m going to try and sleep in the car,” Yuuri replies. “So I should be okay.”

Victor holds his phone up and takes a selfie. Ugh, his hair is limp and his eyes look sleepy. He ruffles his hand through his hair to make it look more tousled and sits up higher so his sheet pools around his waist to show off more of his bare chest. The second shot looks better and he sends it to Yuuri before he can second-guess himself. “Sweet dreams,” Victor sends.

No response. 

“Makkachin, why did you let me do that?” Victor whines, but she doesn’t even raise her head to look at him. “Come on, breakfast.” She perks up at that, of course, and follows him to the kitchen.

“I like him so much,” Victor tells his dog. She’s watching him intently, but most of that is due to the promise of food.

“I know,” he says as he fills her bowl. “Yuuri wouldn’t starve you like this, would he? I’m a terrible papa.”

If the way she dives into her bowl is any indication, she agrees. Well, someone has to be the fun dad.

He gets dressed, takes Makkachin for a walk, and comes back. He doesn’t check his phone. He makes breakfast and eats it standing over the sink. He washes his dishes. His phone is still in the bedroom.

He puts it off as long as he can, but eventually he absolutely has to leave for the rink. He checks his phone as he walks out the door, holding his breath--still no response. He hopes that Yuuri’s still sleeping.

Once he’s at the rink, he tries to push Yuuri out of his mind, but he keeps his jacket on as he warms up so he can feel his phone if it vibrates.

“Vitya!” Yakov roars. “If you’re feeling cold, you’re not working hard enough!” 

“But Yakov, you don’t want me to overtrain, do you?” he calls back.

“Listen to this one!” Yakov says loudly to no one in particular. “He only has two days before he leaves for Skate Canada and he’s worried about overtraining.” He looks at Victor again and says, “Come on! Crossovers, top speed, forward and back!”

Victor pouts, but he knows Yakov is right. He skates to where Yakov is standing and drapes his jacket over the boards. “Let me know if my phone rings, all right?”

“It can wait! Finish your practice and then you can chat with your fans.”

That’s as good as he’s going to get from Yakov, Victor knows. He throws himself into his drills, making sure not to favor his weaker leg (his left leg, injured five years ago and leaving him on the sidelines for an entire season. He had come back stronger the next year and he hasn’t faltered since, but he’s always aware of the possibility of something bad happening again).

Mila and her gaggle of juniors come in at some point, staking out a patch of ice to do their own warmups. It’s funny how good she is with the junior girls when she harasses Yuri so much, but it was only last season that she was one of them herself. It makes sense that she would still be more comfortable with them than the seniors.

Georgi strides in not long after, and Yakov pulls him aside to talk with him by the windows. Ah--Victor can check his phone now! He abandons his jump practice, speeding over to his jacket, and hurriedly pulls his phone out. A missed call! And a text! And only ten minutes ago!

He glances over to see if Yakov has noticed him, but Yakov is still intent on his conversation with Georgi, so Victor puts on his skate guards and slips out to the hallway.

The text says, “I guess you’re busy but call me when you can. But please don’t send another picture like that without warning”

Was that—was it a bad thing? What was wrong with the picture? Maybe Victor could have tried to make himself look more polished, but he’d liked the impulsivity of it. Waking up and sending a good morning selfie to the guy he’s flirting with. It’s the sort of thing an ordinary guy like Mikhail would have done, he thinks.

Ah, well, hopefully Yuuri’s still awake. Victor dials his number. 

“Hello?” Yuuri says.

“Yuuri! Should I have not sent the photo? I thought you’d like it!”

“No, no, no!” Yuuri says. “I did! I liked it a lot! But it made me drop my phone and Phichit tried to climb into the backseat to help me look for it while our coach was driving and, uh, I didn’t want that to happen again.”

“Oh! That’s a relief. I was worried you thought I didn’t look good.”

“You looked really good,” Yuuri says. “I was just surprised. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you like that.”

Ah. Well. “I know you said to wait, but I couldn’t! Not after seeing you skate. You’re so in tune with the music. Like it’s part of you.” Victor shakes his head. Does that make sense to Yuuri? It’s still so hard sometimes to express exactly what he means in English.

Yuuri laughs a little. “I think my fifteen-year-old self is very happy and doesn’t know why all of a sudden.”

“You should be happy too! You did so well! You would have gotten gold if you had landed your jumps better.”

“Gold? No, no, no, Leroy deserved the gold medal!” Yuuri protests. “He’s a very strong skater.” 

“Who?” Victor asks. He really should have paid more attention--the only name from the competition he remembers is Yuuri’s. But the guy who won gold definitely wasn’t as good a skater as Yuuri, even if he may have had stronger jumps. “It doesn’t matter,” Victor says. “You still have one more competition so you can make sure you get your jumps down before then.”

“You sound like my coach,” Yuuri says.

Victor glances over his shoulder for _his_ coach, but fortunately Yakov is still occupied inside. “Well, he doesn’t need to tell you to work on your expressiveness. It’s beautiful.”

“Um, thank you.” Yuuri sounds nervous, but he really has no reason to be, Victor thinks. He’s got weeks before his next competition, and since the NHK Trophy is the last competition before the final, he’ll be able to see all his competitors’ programs beforehand and adjust the difficulty of his own accordingly. Maybe another combination in his free? He’d have room if he moved his step sequence earlier. 

Victor can already see a rearrangement of Yuuri’s program, matching the jumps even more closely with the music—and Yuuri’s musicality is so good that he could easily manage the kind of precise timing that would require. It’s exciting, thinking of the possibilities. 

“Have you thought about how you can rearrange your program for more points? I have some ideas—but you should also talk about it with your choreographer. You don’t want to lose the flow of your program when it’s working so well right now!”

“My program?” Yuuri sounds taken aback. 

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it! You skate it very well! But it’s not, you know, very challenging.”

“Oh, uh, wow,” Yuuri says. “Okay, now I know I’m not dreaming this.”

“Huh?” 

“Sorry, sorry! I’m just really tired, I didn’t mean to say anything! Thank you for your advice.” Of course, it’s been a long day for Yuuri--it was only a few hours ago that he had finished competing, and he’d had to skate his gala performance after that too.

“Yuuri! It must be so late for you!” Victor says. “I didn’t think about that. You need to go to bed, but text me when you wake up? I don’t know what time it’ll be here but I’d like to talk to you again soon.”

“Me too,” Yuuri says. “I’d like that, I mean. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Victor says.

“Um,” Yuuri says. “If you wanted, you could send me another picture now? Because I’m at home now and by myself.”

“Yes!” He’s going to send the best picture. Something that’ll make Yuuri drop his phone again. But he can’t take it here--the grim overhead fluorescents make it look like he’s standing in a passport office, and ugh, gross. “But you have to go to sleep right now.” 

“I will. Good night, Victor,” Yuuri says. The phone clicks as he hangs up.

The rink has those huge windows, with all the natural light that entails, but Victor doesn’t want to deal with Yakov’s tirade if he catches Victor taking selfies when he should be practicing. Victor frowns at his reflection in his front-facing camera, turning his head slightly to bring out the line of his jaw. 

Behind him, the door to the rink slams open. Shit, it’s Yakov.

“Vitya! What are you doing out here? Are you taking pictures of yourself?”

“Ah, Yakov! Just who I wanted to see! Can you film me on the ice?” Victor holds his phone out to Yakov, smiling brightly.

“That would require you to actually be on the ice!” Yakov shouts, but he takes the phone and follows Victor back into the rink. 

Victor’s not ready to share his full program before its official competition debut, but there’s no reason that he can’t tease Yuuri with a photo of himself skating _Stammi Vicino_ , his arm extended to the camera entreatingly as he skates backward. When he checks the photos after his run-through, he chooses one that highlights the expression on his face to send to Yuuri. Will Yuuri notice? Will he realize what that soft, yearning smile means? 

Victor can only hope.

Yuuri calls later that evening to thank him for the picture. It turns out he can’t come to Canada after all--something about his visa? Or his coach? He’s kind of vague about it.

Victor gets it, though. Yuuri probably had a plan for how he was going to reach out to Victor, and running off to Canada in the middle of the season probably isn’t part of it.

“That’s okay,” Victor says. “This way, the first time you see my programs in person will be when we’re at the final together!”

“Right. The Grand Prix Final. Together,” Yuuri says. “Um, but I’ll still be watching the livestream this weekend!”

“Good,” Victor says. “I want you to see my free skate. Let me know what you think!”

No one’s seen it yet outside of his team, but all of them have said the same thing: “Where did this come from? This isn’t like what you usually do.” (As if he could be said to have a usual! Though he has to admit, this honesty is out of the ordinary for him.) And then the backpedaling: “But it’s good! It’s very good!”

Victor knows it’s good. He knows his fans will like it. He just hopes Yuuri does.


	11. Sapporo, November 2015: Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the delay in replying to comments; I've been a bit anxious and overwhelmed this week (as many of us have been!). Trust me that I do appreciate them, even if I'm not ready to read them yet!

Victor wins gold in Canada, of course. He wins gold in France, too.

His Stammi Vicino program is...Yuuri doesn’t have words. Incredible. Magnificent. But also? Something in it strikes him as deeply sad. There’s such a profound sense of loss throughout the whole program, even if it ends on a somewhat hopeful note.

Victor doesn’t say much about it when Yuuri asks, only: “I hope that it speaks to other people the way it speaks to me. The music, when I heard it...I don’t know. I just knew I had to skate to it.”

Yuuri’s never had that. He’s never heard something and thought, “That. That’s what I want my skating to feel like, that’s what I want people to feel when they see me skate.”

He doesn’t _dislike_ his programs this season. They’re fine--they let him move in ways he’s good at, and his short program actually reminds him a bit of one of Victor’s old programs. Not that he’ll ever say that to Victor! But he wonders if Victor sees it when he watches Yuuri skate. 

He really, really wants to know what Victor sees when Yuuri skates. Victor’s comments have alternated between effusive praise and strict, dispassionate analysis. It’s all valid criticism--Yuuri’s reworked the transition from his triple flip to his step sequence based on Victor’s suggestions, without telling Celestino what prompted it, and it really is better now. 

Yuuri goes to Sapporo for the NHK Trophy feeling uncharacteristically resolute. He’s taken Victor’s commentary to heart--even the frustrating parts, like when Victor had tried to tell him he needed to listen to the audience while he was skating. Honestly, when Yuuri skates, he does his best to forget his audience--if he could skate behind a curtain and come out for only as long as it took to get his scores, he’d be happy.

But he’s worked on his programs. He’s improved them from the start of the season, with Victor’s help, and they’re stronger now--enough that he feels confident putting them up against the best from Christophe Giacometti and Cao Bin, both of whom are heavily favored at the NHK Trophy.

He _has_ to get through this competition. If he doesn’t, he’s not going to meet Victor on the ice at the final. That’s what this whole season has been for, after all. He may have met Victor in New York (or in Detroit, really), but Victor still hasn’t met _him_.   
  
When he takes bronze at the NHK Trophy, it’s almost anticlimactic. With his silver from Skate America, he has 24 points--enough to qualify him for a spot in the final. He’s going to see Victor, in person, on the ice.

Celestino is ecstatic. “Come, Yuuri, you need to celebrate! Have some champagne!” He grabs a flute from a passing waiter as they walk into the banquet hall hosting the post-competition gala. “You’re going to Sochi!”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, and drains the entire flute in one long gulp.

The other competitors are all eager to congratulate him, and Christophe Giacometti, whom Yuuri’s met a few times before, even invites him to join them, but Yuuri doesn’t feel up to it. Chris is going to the final too, and it all just seems too much.

Fortunately, the junior JSF representative approaches him after dinner. It turns out the guy is much more up to date on recent game releases than Yuuri is, so they wind up talking first person shooters for the rest of the evening. It’s just such a relief to not have to speak English at one of these things, firstly, and also to be able to talk about something that’s not skating.

Yuuri’s tipsy and relaxed when he finally gets back to his room and checks his phone. There are a bunch of texts from Victor, but reading them seems like too much work, so instead, he calls him.

Victor picks up immediately. “Yuuri! You were so good tonight!”

“Thanks,” he replies. “Um. I guess I’m going to Sochi.”

“Do you know when you’re arriving? Do you think, do you want to come a couple of days early? I can show you around if you want.” 

This should feel amazing. This should be, like, the culmination of every idle daydream Yuuri’s ever had, but it just feels hollow. Because the thing is, when Yuuri used to idly think about meeting Victor someday, it was supposed to happen after he’d skated. He was going to put together a program himself, the way Victor does, and it was going to be elegant and powerful and Victor was going to think, “Wow. I admire his skating so much. I need to talk to him.” 

But instead, Victor’s only paying attention to him because they hooked up on vacation. Victor doesn’t know him as a skater--well, now he kind of does, because he’s been sending Yuuri notes as Yuuri got ready for Sapporo--but he still thinks that Yuuri’s the charming, flirty guy who never gets scared and never lets anyone down and always, always knows the right thing to say.

“I, well, maybe,” Yuuri says. “But this competition is really important to me. It’s the first time I’ve ever made it to the final, you know?”

“You’re much better this season than before,” Victor agrees. “I looked up your programs from last year on YouTube.”

Oh god, his shameful past. Why does it still haunt him?

Victor’s still talking, though: “You could probably add another quad by Worlds, if you really wanted to, but it’s risky. Better to keep refining your transitions and your timing with these programs, and then start fresh next season with something that’s more you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs.

“But you really have a shot at a medal at the final,” Victor says. “I have a higher point-base--a few of us do, Christophe too, and that loud guy with the jumps--but you’re very expressive when you’re skating. I can tell you have a dance background, right? Your movements are very graceful.”

“Oh. Um, thank you,” Yuuri says. 

Honestly, Victor doesn’t need to butter him up. Yuuri’s so into him. And not just in a sexy way--like, Yuuri really just wants to hold his hand. And drink overpriced lattes with him and listen to him talk about his choreography and even just watch him floss his teeth. He’s wanted to be close to Victor since he was 12 years old.

Fuck.

“Um. There’s a day between the short program and the free,” Yuuri says. “If you want, we could maybe go somewhere then?”

Fuck. 

But no, he’s doing this. He may not be Vacation Yuuri anymore, but Regular Yuuri can get it too, and he’s just so sick of second-guessing himself. Victor says he wants to see him, so fine. Yuuri’s going to let Victor see him. If Victor hates it, well, that’s _his_ problem.

“Are you sure?” Victor asks. “We don’t have to do anything big! Even if we just meet for lunch, it would be nice to see you.”

“I think I’ll need a distraction by that point,” Yuuri says. “I have this thing where, uh, where I get really nervous about competing. Being at the final is going to make it worse, I think.”

“Oh, is that why your programs are so inconsistent? They go up and down a lot over the season,” Victor says brightly, as if he hasn’t just put a stake through Yuuri’s heart.

Fuck, it was bad enough feeling like he was letting his coach down whenever he fucked up. Now that he knows Victor is watching that closely, it’s even worse. Like tonight, he’d flubbed one of his jumps and had to turn it into a double, and it had definitely affected his score for the free--and Victor would have known he’d planned for it to be a triple, because it was part of the combination he’d added _on Victor’s advice_.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. “I’m, it’s a personal weakness. I’m trying to do better.”

“Oh, no, Yuuri!” Victor says. “Lots of people get nervous about competing. You’ll be fine!”

“No,” Yuuri says. “It’s. Sometimes it’s not fine.” 

This is so hard. How can Victor even begin to understand what Yuuri feels? Victor’s never had an off-day in his life. He sets a new record every time he steps on the ice. Even when Victor was running away from his old life by going incognito in New York, it was because he was bored, or unsatisfied, or looking for something more meaningful, whatever, it doesn’t even matter, because it _wasn’t_ because he wasn’t good enough, or because he’d poured years of his life into a sport that pushed him back at every turn. 

The slight buzz Yuuri had been nursing is long gone. “I know you’re trying to help,” he says. “But--”

“Yuuri,” Victor interrupts. “Wait. I don’t want you to think-- You are skilled. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked this season. You deserve to go to the final.”

“I _know_ that,” Yuuri says. “But I don’t know--I don’t know if I’ll still know that when I’m _there_.”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t know what to say,” Victor says.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Yuuri says. “I just, you just need to be there the day after the short program. I don’t want to talk about skating, I don’t want to think about the GPF. We’ll just. You’ll just show me around Sochi. We’ll talk about our dogs, I don’t know.”

“Oh! How is Victor Two?” Victor asks. “We absolutely will not talk about skating in Sochi, but we can still talk about dogs now, right?”

Something in Yuuri’s chest loosens at Victor’s easy agreement. This is okay. He can do this. “Victor Two? Where did that come from?”

“Oh, well, you know, because I’m older than him so I’m the first Victor,” he explains. “You know Yuri Plisetsky? He’s in juniors--he’s going to the final too.”

“Yeah, I think so. He trains under your coach, too, right?”

“Yes, that’s him!” Victor says. “Anyway, someone saw there were two Yuris on the Grand Prix circuit this year, so we’ve been calling him Yuri Two because you had the name first.”

“What, seriously? You and your coach?”

“Oh, no, Yakov doesn’t know why we’re calling him Yuri Two. But the rest of the skaters do! We watched your performance at Skate America together.”

What. The Russian team watched him skate? The Russian team knows who he is? “The rest...your whole rink?” 

“Most of them! I think Gosha’s girlfriend didn’t come and probably some of the younger ones too,” Victor says. “You’re a good skater, Yuuri. I keep telling Yuri Two he needs to work on his musicality because it’s nowhere as good as yours.”

“You. What?”

“Which I guess is another reason why you should be Yuri One,” Victor muses. “He’s just, jump more, jump faster, and that’s fine for juniors but he needs to pace himself if he’s going to skate in seniors.”

None of this makes any sense. “I don’t understand,” Yuuri says.

“Oh, well, you know,” Victor says. “He doesn’t have a lot of competition in juniors. It makes him overconfident. It will be interesting to see how he evolves next season--he’ll be eligible for seniors and I think he’ll want to move up as soon as he can.”

Victor pauses, distracted by something, and then says: “Oh! Yuri and Yuuri! If he moves up next season, you can face each other!”

This is...not what Yuuri wanted to talk about. Weren’t they going to talk about dogs? He would much rather be talking about dogs. “Ah, yeah, maybe. But how’s Makkachin?”

It’s the right tactic--Victor’s easily drawn into a discussion of her latest antics, and when Yuuri finally winds down the call, Victor happily promises to dig up never-before-seen pictures of her to show Yuuri once they get together in Sochi.

Yuuri sits at the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand. He’s known all along that he was aiming for the final, but it feels terrifyingly real all of a sudden. Yuuri is going to skate at the Grand Prix Final. He’s going up against _Victor Nikiforov_ at the Grand Prix Final. But before that, he’s going to go on a _date_ with Victor. How is this his life?


	12. Sochi, December 2015: Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here! Thank you all for sticking with me to the end of this. Ironically, my elderly cat had (is still having) a serious health scare this week and rereading this chapter was surprisingly difficult for me, so I apologize for it not being as thoroughly edited as the previous ones. If you catch anything, please let me know!

Victor wakes up the morning after the short program with a giddy joy thrumming through him. He’s going to see Yuuri today, properly--he’s going to see Yuuri Katsuki, currently in third place at the Grand Prix Final, but also _his_ Yuuri--the guy he’d met in New York who’d lured him to Detroit and promised that he’d come back to him if Victor just kept skating. _Him._ Victor can’t wait.

He’d seen Yuuri at the short last night, of course--Victor had been lucky enough to draw a low number, so he was the second to perform, and it meant he could get his own performance over quickly and focus on everyone else’s. He’d stayed back in deference to Yuuri’s request until Yuuri had gone on the ice, but afterward, stepping off the ice, Yuuri had looked up and their eyes had met and Victor would swear he heard an orchestral score swelling around them until Yuuri’s coach had taken Yuuri’s elbow to guide him to the kiss and cry.

This was the closest they’d been in months, and Victor still couldn’t go to him.

But today! Today they’re going on a _date_.

Victor had texted Yuuri the address for a cafe nearby, someplace just far enough from the hotel that it’d be unlikely they’d run into the other competitors. Yuuri had replied with a brisk, “See you there”, but Victor isn’t going to let himself second-guess Yuuri’s interest anymore.

Yuuri wants this. He said he does. Victor has to believe that.

Yuuri’s right on time, approaching the cafe just as Victor does. “Yuuri!” Victor sings out, waving as he approaches.

“Hi,” Yuuri says. He looks gorgeous--he’s wearing his glasses and a snuggly blue scarf and Victor just wants to tuck his face in between the scarf and Yuuri’s neck and live there forever. Later, he tells himself.

“Are you hungry?” Victor asks. “I was thinking we’d just get coffee, but they have nice pastries here too.”

“Uh, sure, maybe,” Yuuri says. He sounds a bit overwhelmed.

“Let me order for us,” Victor says, pointing Yuuri to a table. “You hold our seats.”

He comes back quickly with a latte for himself and a black coffee like he remembers Yuuri ordering in New York. He also orders a croissant in case Yuuri does want to eat after all. 

“So!” he says, sitting down at the table with Yuuri. “Welcome to Sochi, Yuuri Katsuki of Japan.”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri says. 

“You did say we’d meet again, but I didn’t think it would be at the _Grand Prix Final_.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I thought you agreed we weren’t going to talk about skating.”

“I’m just talking about how nice it is to see you in person again,” Victor says blithely.

“You—fine,” Yuuri sighs. “Hello, Victor. It’s good to see you again. Congratulations on first place.”

“Congratulations on third!” he says. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. He still looks a bit shy, but he’s smiling too, so Victor doesn’t feel too bad about teasing him. 

“I know we weren’t going to talk about skating, but this is pretty incredible, right? Being at the GPF together?” Victor asks.

“It’s terrifying,” Yuuri says, but he’s still smiling and Victor can’t help but smile back.

“It’s good, though, I hope,” Victor says.

“It’s good,” Yuuri agrees. He pauses for a moment, watching Victor, and finally says, “I’m glad you’re seeing this part of me.”

Oh, and it’s astounding that there _is_ this part of him. The Yuuri he’d fallen for in the spring was so nice--sweet, playful, loving, kind--but _this_ Yuuri, whom he hadn’t even known to want, is a revelation. His bravery, his determination--the pure honest emotion behind every stroke of his on the ice--is an inspiration.

“I really like this part of you,” Victor says. “Watching you skate makes me excited about skating in a way I haven’t been in years. I want to see what you could do with my programs, with my choreography.”

Yuuri fidgets with his coffee cup. “I love your programs. I used to copy your skating when I was a kid, you know?”

Victor shakes his head. To think, for all those years, Yuuri was watching him, skating with him, skating for him. It’s more than he’d ever thought he could have.

Yuuri’s still speaking: “And Stammi Vicino--I’ve watched it so many times. The first time you skated it, at Skate Canada--I think half the hits on YouTube must be from me!”

“Did I send you the lyrics?” Victor asks. “In English, I mean. I know we talked about it a little bit but I can’t remember if I did.”

“No,” Yuuri says. “My roommate Google-Translated the name and spent the rest of the night telling me--” He cuts himself off. “Just, you know, teasing me.”

“Oh yeah, he was in that selfie you sent when you were watching, right?”

“Ugh. _He_ sent that selfie,” and he looks so disgruntled that Victor has to laugh.

“It was a great picture! But it didn’t look like you were that happy to be photographed.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Yuuri says. “He’s really invested in how our meeting today goes, by the way. He’s probably going to be at Worlds this year--he skates for Thailand--and he’s already threatened to find you there if I didn’t meet up with you here.”

“Well,” Victor says, “I’d rather meet up with you here than him there, so I’m glad it worked out this way. And you’re going to be at Worlds too--I saw online that you were there last year! It’s funny to think we could have met even earlier than we did.”

“I’m glad we didn’t,” Yuuri says. “I don’t think I’d be able to talk to you like this if I hadn’t met you as Mikhail first.”

“I’m still sorry about lying,” Victor says. “But I’m glad you’ve forgiven me.” 

It’s just so nice, sitting here with Yuuri like this. And Yuuri seems to think so too, smiling at Victor as he takes another sip of his coffee.

Victor tears off part of the untouched croissant for himself and nudges the plate toward Yuuri.

“Help yourself,” he says. “So did you have anything you absolutely wanted to see while you’re here? I’m not _too_ familiar with the city, but I‘ve visited a few times.”

“Like for the Olympics,” Yuuri says wryly. “I wasn’t selected, but I watched you last year.”

“Did you like it? I think I was overscored, but with the games being in Russia and me having done so well already that year, a lot of people wanted me to win.” Victor doesn’t feel _badly_ about it, exactly. But he worries that his boundary-pushing is beginning to feel commonplace, and people are going to get bored. 

“I did like it,” Yuuri says. “I was thinking that it might be nice to get a tour of the Olympic grounds with the gold medalist.” He winks and adds, “But if you’ve seen too much of it, we can go somewhere else!”

“No, that’s a great idea. There’s a good restaurant we can go to—have you had a chance to try any Russian food?”

“No, but that sounds nice.” Yuuri puts his empty cup on the table. “Whenever you’re ready.”

They shrug their coats on and head out. As they leave, Yuuri glances at his phone. 

“Oh,” he says. “My sister’s calling. I was trying to call her after I skated—do you mind if I get this?”

Victor waves his hand. “Go ahead!”

Yuuri picks up the call. Victor _knew_ he was from Japan, that he skated under its flag, but he hadn’t thought it through to realize that Yuuri must speak Japanese too. He’s so soft-spoken on the phone—Victor’s not sure if that’s the way he is with his sister or just how he is in a different language. 

Victor touches Yuuri’s elbow to direct them as they turn at the corner. Yuuri is silent, nodding along to what she’s saying. 

Victor looks ahead, waiting for the light to change. Does Yuuri’s sister live in Detroit too? Yuuri had mentioned his parents when he’d talked about going to Sapporo for the NHK Trophy--they live in Japan, but not near Sapporo, Victor remembers, but he doesn’t think Yuuri had said anything about his sister.

At his side, Yuuri gasps suddenly, a quiet, shocked inhalation. He says something in Japanese to her and then repeats it, louder.

Victor glances over at him. Yuuri says something else to his sister, his eyes wide and disbelieving, and then unceremoniously ends the call. He clutches his phone in his hand, staring down at it.

“Yuuri?” Victor asks. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” Yuuri says. He won’t look up from his phone. “Vicchan--my dog--he got hit by a car last night.”

“Yuuri!” Victor gasps. His poor little dog. Victor’s never even met Victor Two and he feels gutted, so he can’t imagine how Yuuri’s feeling right now. “Is he okay? Is your sister with him now?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “He’s gone,” he says, eyes still fixed on the phone in his hand. Tears well up in his eyes.

“Oh, no, Yuuri,” Victor says. He doesn’t know what to do. How would he react if he lost Makkachin?

“I just...I was going to visit after Nationals,” Yuuri says blankly. 

“Come on,” Victor says. This is no time for sightseeing. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

Yuuri doesn’t protest as Victor guides him back to where they’re staying. When they get to the hotel, Victor presses the elevator button for his own floor. Victor knows Yuuri’s in no state to fumble with key cards and with trying to remember what room he’s in, but also, rather selfishly, Victor wants to keep Yuuri to himself right now.

Yuuri goes where Victor directs him, ending up on the sofa in Victor’s suite. He’s not crying anymore, but his eyes are red and wet.

“I could have visited when I was in Sapporo,” he says. “It would have been expensive, but I could have. But I thought this was more important--getting ready for this, I mean. The GPF.”

“This is important,” Victor says. “You’re doing so well, Yuuri.”

“So what?” Yuuri scrubs at his face. “Last night was a fluke--I don’t belong here. It’s only because Christophe fell and Michele messed up that I’m doing as well as I am.”

“Don’t say that!” Victor says. “You do belong here. You worked so hard for this.”

Yuuri shakes his head. 

Victor doesn’t know how to get through to him. Yuuri had _said_ he got like this, but honestly, Victor hadn’t really taken it seriously. How could someone qualify for the Grand Prix Final and still doubt himself? It doesn’t make any sense.

But Yuuri had warned him, and maybe he’d been nursing these insecurities even during their coffee date. He’d asked to go sightseeing as a distraction, so maybe he just needs something else to take his mind off of things?

Victor sits down on the sofa beside him. “Yuuri,” he murmurs, taking his hand.

“What?” Yuuri asks, looking over at him.

“Do you…can I kiss you?”

“What? No!” Yuuri drops Victor’s hand and backs away, squeezing himself against the arm of the couch. “How is that supposed to help?”

“I don’t know! But you said you needed a distraction today and you’re saying such terrible things about yourself,” Victor stumbles over himself to explain. “I just--how can you not know how amazing you are?”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Yuuri demands. “I’ve been so selfish, and for what? I haven’t seen my dog in five years, and what do I have to show for it?”

His face is flushed from this outpouring of emotion and Victor just wants to _help_ , but he doesn’t know what Yuuri needs.

“And now I’m making you deal with this too,” Yuuri adds, swiping at the tears running down his cheeks. “You just wanted to have a nice day with a cool guy and now you’re stuck here with me like this.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says helplessly. “That’s not what I wanted.”

Yuuri swallows. “I’m sorry. I should go. You don’t need to deal with this.”

“No,” Victor says. “Don’t go. You just...you just keep trying to _leave_.” He squeezes his hands together, trying to compose himself. “You made it here. You _deserve_ to be here, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“You know how hard you worked,” Victor says. “And no one but you feels like you didn’t do enough. Your Victor would have told you that, if he could.”

Yuuri’s mouth wobbles. “He...I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he says.

“That is so, so hard,” Victor says. “But dogs know more than we give them credit for. He knew how much you loved him.”

Yuuri shrugs.

“Well, _I_ know how much you loved him. And you do, too. And you sacrificed time that you could have spent with him for this, for skating, so I know how much you must love this. Just. You’ve come so far. You can’t quit before the end.”

Yuuri sits for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Victor’s. “I know. You’re right. But it’s so… I missed him so much and now I’ll never see him again.”

Victor puts his hand on the sofa in front of Yuuri, palm up. “Is it okay if I hold your hand?”

Yuuri sighs, but he puts his hand in Victor’s so Victor counts that as a success.

“You just have your free program tomorrow. You can do it. Put all this feeling into it--all your love for your Victor, all your hopes for him.” He squeezes Yuuri’s hand. “When I see you skate tomorrow--I never got to meet him, and I wish I could have, but this is how you can share him with me. And with the world.”

There isn’t much to say after that. Yuuri hugs Victor and tells him he’ll see him tomorrow, and then he goes back to his own room. Victor hopes that Yuuri takes his words to heart. He’s such a soulful, expressive skater. The audience tomorrow deserves to see how skilled he is.

Victor stays in his room for the rest of the night. It’s only as he’s getting ready for bed that he realizes he missed the junior free skate--he’d promised Yuri Two he’d watch, but it completely slipped his mind. He checks the results online, and as expected, Yuri Two has won. He dashes off a quick congratulatory text but doesn’t get a response. He’ll see him tomorrow, though, so he can say something then.

The morning of the free skate is weird, though. Yuri Two doesn’t come to the practice session, so he doesn’t get a chance to talk to him there, and Yuuri--Yuuri One, his Yuuri--is there but doesn’t approach Victor. He does nod at Victor, but he stays close to his coach so Victor doesn’t get a chance to talk to him at all.

It’s strange. Victor feels more alone than he’s felt since coming back from Detroit. Yakov yells at him for being distracted, and that, at least, feels familiar, but he can’t shake the melancholy that’s settled on him.

Well. 

He’s dealt with this before. All he can do is pour it into his performance.

He still hasn’t shaken it by the evening, and Yakov seems to have picked up on his mood. Rather than let him wait in the green room with the other skaters (with Yuuri), he pulls Victor into the hallway. 

“What are you acting like this for?” he demands.

“What do you mean?” Victor asks. He knows what Yakov means, of course, but playing dumb has always served him well.

“This moping around. Are you feeling sick? You were fine at practice,” Yakov says. He lowers his voice, as if any other skaters were even around to hear him. “Is it your hip?”

“No, Yakov, I’m fine,” Victor says. “I just realized I missed Yuri Two’s free yesterday and I feel bad about letting him down.”

Yakov squints at him, judging the truth of his words, and Victor hurriedly adds, “We should go back inside. I don’t want to miss my cue, right?”

Yakov shakes his head but follows Victor back inside. The third skater is on the TV now--that pushy Canadian guy--but Victor doesn’t want to watch him skate. Yuuri is stretching, circling his arms to warm his upper body. He’s up next.

The cheers from the audience indicate that the other guy’s finished. Yuuri’s coach gestures to the door and Yuuri shakes his shoulders out quickly.

“Yuuri,” Victor says impulsively. They haven’t spoken at all today, but he can’t let him go on the ice still thinking he doesn’t belong out there.

Yuuri looks up, startled, and out of the corner of his eye, Victor sees Christophe take notice too.

“You’re...you deserve to be here,” he says. “Make it worth it. Go be amazing.”

Yuuri’s serious face doesn’t waver, but he gives Victor a brief nod before preceding his coach out of the room.

Victor shakes his head. Was that enough? Does Yuuri know just how special he is?

“What was that about?” Christophe asks.

“Nothing,” Victor says. “Just, uh, trying to support a fellow competitor.”

Christophe raises an eyebrow. Ugh. He’s way more observant than people give him credit for.

“He just said some stuff yesterday,” Victor tries to explain. “You know.”

“Yesterday,” Chris repeats. Fuck, yesterday was a free day. Victor had told Christophe he already had plans when he’d suggested hanging out.

Oh no, now Yakov is eyeing him weirdly too.

“We ran into each other! Did you know this is his first Grand Prix?”

“I didn’t know you knew,” Chris says. “He doesn’t talk about himself much.”

“Oh? Well, he’s doing very well,” Victor says, turning to the TV just as Yuuri lands on his ass. Oh, hell.

Yuuri’s face is tight as he gets back on his feet. Victor can only imagine the horrible things he’s saying to himself, and he squeezes his hands together as he watches Yuuri speed up for his next jump.

This is the hardest part. When you’re out on the ice, it’s just you. You can have all the support and love in the world, but the people who love you can’t skate your routine for you (no matter how much Victor might want to).

Yuuri wobbles on the landing but keeps his balance, and Victor breathes out a sigh of relief. It’s never been like this before, watching someone else skate. 

Victor has always been a bit distant from his fellow skaters, able to cleanly assess their strengths and weaknesses. Watching Yuuri earlier in the season, Victor had been able to see where he was holding himself back or not performing as well as he could, but now, tonight, watching him perform his last program in the final, Yuuri’s simple mistakes make Victor feel like he’s the one laid bare on the ice.

Oh, Yuuri’s dear, determined face. He grits his way through a spin, catching his foot behind him and arching his back into the movement. Even though Victor knows he’s struggling, he makes it look easy.

Something in Yuuri seems to have settled since his fall, though. He’s fighting his way through the program, and it’s a different energy from the way he’d performed it earlier in the season. His performances at Skate America and the NHK Trophy had been elegant and stately--a big presence, but tempered, refined. Tonight he’s storming through the piece, his grief and anger on full display, and it _works_.

Victor barely notices when Chris steps out to get ready for his own free skate, caught up as he is in Yuuri’s. Yuuri’s powering through his jumps, launching himself to a height he rarely shows in competition. It’s wonderful. Magnificent. Reckless, too--he takes his step sequence at speed, and Victor worries that he’s so caught up in the motions that he’s no longer listening to his music, but then he perfectly punctuates a musical phrase with an extended spin.

If this isn’t enough proof to Yuuri that he’s the one holding himself back, Victor isn’t sure what will convince him.

The audience is on board, too. When Yuuri stops, the wave of voices from the arena is loud enough that Victor can hear them even without the broadcast. 

In the kiss and cry, Yuuri’s coach leans into him to say something, but Yuuri stares ahead intently, waiting for his score.

Victor finds himself tensing up as he waits, too. Will the judges see what Victor did--what the audience did--in Yuuri’s performance? 

And it doesn’t make any sense that Victor’s so worried, because he’s always felt that the scoring doesn’t _matter_ as long as you just skate your best. But when it comes to Yuuri, it’s different. Victor wants the world to appreciate him as much as Victor does and then maybe, _maybe_ Yuuri will start to see his own strength.

The free score flashes on screen. And his rank--number one, he’s in _first_. No matter what happens, Yuuri’s getting on the podium. Victor claps his hands over his mouth to muffle his joy. 

“You seem very interested in this skater, Vitya,” Yakov says, and it’s a good thing Victor still has his hand over his mouth because he just made a very undignified noise.

“Ah! Yakov!” Victor says. “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“I’m sure he is,” Yakov says. He _looks_ at Victor.

Victor looks away. Chris is on the screen now, and he seems to be in fine form. 

“And Chris is very good, too,” Victor adds, before Yakov can say anything else. “I really should focus, you know, there’s a lot of competition tonight.”

He laces his fingers together behind his back to stretch his shoulders out. “So much going on right now, so I should just think about my own program! What do you think, should I do the version with the extra lutz in it?”

Yakov scoffs. “As if you haven’t made up your mind already. You want to impress Katsuki, don’t you?”

“Yakov! He is simply a fellow competitor whom I admire and respect very much,” Victor says. He adds, to be sure that Yakov properly understands, “As an _athlete_.”

Yakov rolls his eyes at Victor, but maybe he figures that it doesn’t matter what Victor says as long as he’s motivated. And he _is_. 

This is the first time he’ll perform _Stammi Vicino_ in front of Yuuri. They’ve talked about the program, and he thinks Yuuri understands how much he’s inspired Victor, but now he has a chance to _show_ him.

Victor finishes his stretches without saying anything more and follows Yakov out of the waiting room. Chris takes his bows on the ice and now--Victor is rinkside, shrugging off his warmup jacket. This is it. Yuuri’s watching. 

The entire performance is a blur. He’s pouring all the things he tried to say to Yuuri into his movements, trying to show him just how essential he is. _”If I could see you, eternity will be born from hope. Stay close to me, don’t go away.”_

It’s over too soon. Victor finds himself with his arms crossed over his chest, staring skyward, blinking back tears. The cheers of the audience are faint under the rushing in his ears. Was that...did that work? Did Yuuri see? Did he understand?

He looks around from the kiss and cry, but Yuuri isn’t in sight. His score is almost anticlimactic, though he shoots to the top of the rankings with it. Huh. Chris is still more than 30 points below him, with Yuuri not far below that.

And that’s it--the GPF is over. All that’s left is the medal ceremony.

He finally joins Yuuri as they, along with Chris, troop out to the podium together. He tries to meet his eyes, but Yuuri won’t look up from his careful steps as he climbs onto the third place step.

Victor stares out at the lights of the arena. He’s here. He’s here with Yuuri--about to accept his fifth Grand Prix Final gold, and Yuuri about to accept his first GPF medal (a medal in his first year at the final! Victor hopes he appreciates how impressive he is).

Yuuri bows his head to let the official place the medal around his neck. It looks good on him.

When the official moves over to give Chris his silver, Victor nudges Yuuri gently. “Hey,” he says. “You deserve this.”

Yuuri turns to look at Victor, his eyes bright. He presses the back of his hand to his eyes to blot away tears--happy tears, Victor hopes--and nods sharply.

The official stops in front of Victor, gold medal in hand, and he bends his neck to accept it.

He’s going to talk to Yuuri. This isn’t the end of it--they still have the gala tonight, and then however long before Yuuri’s flight home. Victor feels something settle in him as he lifts his medal to his lips for the cameras.

“Victor,” Yuuri says quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

“Hmm?” Victor looks down at him.

“You’re right,” Yuuri says. “I deserve this,” and then. 

And _then_. 

He grips the ribbon of Victor’s medal and tugs him down and he _kisses_ Victor, on the podium, cameras flashing. Next to Victor, Chris wolf-whistles, and around them the roar of the audience swells into a high-pitched buzz that whites out as Victor melts into Yuuri.

When Yuuri loosens his grip so he can pull back to look at Victor, he has tears streaming down his face--and, Victor realizes, he does too--but he looks so _happy_. 

“This medal is for Vicchan,” Yuuri murmurs. “But the next one is going to be for you.”

Victor squeezes his hand. They’re on the podium, they’re surrounded by people, but in this moment, it’s just the two of them, side by side. “I’m holding you to that,” Victor says, and he just can’t _wait_ for what’s coming next.


	13. Epilogue: Sochi, December 2015: Yuri Plisetsky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I wasn't ready to let this story go, so here's a very brief epilogue from everyone's favourite foul-mouthed figure skater. Enjoy!

This is such bullshit. As if he even needs to be here. Especially after Victor couldn’t even be bothered to come watch his skate yesterday--not that Yuri wanted him to! But Victor had _said_ he’d be there and then he flaked, as usual.

Besides, it’s not like anything interesting is even going to happen at the seniors’ free skate. Yuri already knows how it’s going to go: Victor’s going to be shitty and boring, Chris is going to be gross and boring, that douchebag JJ is going to be loud and boring, and that fucking Other Yuri is just going to be sad and boring.

But Yakov won’t let Yuri go off on his own and Mila won’t come with him because she’s an asshole too who insists that he needs to watch “Yuri One” skate--as if he’d _ever_ call him that, fucking name-stealer--so Yuri’s stuck at the arena, watching these losers fighting amongst themselves to come in second to Victor.

Disgusting.

Mila’s having a good time at any rate, cheering loudly for Crispino as he takes his bows. Why the hell does she even care? He’s a loser. But she’s friends with his sister, so maybe that’s it.

The name-stealer’s in third, at least, so if nothing else, he’s beating out fucking JJ. The bottom three are predictable--Crispino, Bin (seriously, the guy’s almost as old as Victor, why is he even still competing?), and JJ, which Yuri reflects on with a certain joy. He doesn’t love the other Yuri, but anyone who’ll push JJ off the podium is alright in his books.

Except now it’s time for the other Yuri’s free skate, and he’s fucking _terrible_. Like, Yuri’s-embarrassed-to-share-his-name terrible. Seriously, what the fuck? At Skate America and even the NHK Trophy (which Yuri will never admit to having watched, and if it does come out that he did, it’s only because he needs to know how pathetic the competition will be when he enters seniors next year), Katsuki had put on a passable, albeit boring, performance.

But tonight, he’s out there with a new energy and it’s kind of cool to see except he’s all _over_ the ice today. He hauls himself up from his flubbed triple and throws himself into his next jump, and he comes down _hard_ on it. It’s tough to look at.

He gets better in the second half, though, and manages to finish ahead of that shithead JJ, at least. But seriously, this name-stealer could be _good_. Much as Yuri hates to admit Victor’s ever right about anything, it’s true that his step sequences are compelling. What would he be like competing with no mistakes?

Yuri allows himself to think about it--meeting the name-stealer on the ice next year, and Katsuki will say, “Yuri Plisetsky? I’ve heard of you,” and Yuri will go, “Well, I’ve never heard of you, get your own name,” and then he’ll fucking _crush_ him. The daydream lasts the length of Chris’s shitty, gross program, and then ugh. Victor’s on the ice.

Yuri hates to admit it, but Victor still is the best. It won’t be for much longer--Yuri’s going to be in seniors next year, so Victor only has a short time to enjoy being at the top of the podium--but for now, Yuri can admit that Victor’s skating flawlessly. It’s no surprise that he scores as high as he does. Chris, in second, isn’t even close.

Chris might as well retire next year. With Yuri coming up from juniors, there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up. Victor will never retire, but that just gives Yuri the satisfaction of grinding him into the ice himself. 

And the other Yuri! That fucker. Yuri’s going to make him admit who the better Yuri is, and then it won’t matter how graceful his steps are or how fluidly he spins.

He says as much to Mila, and she just shakes her head and laughs. It’s not _funny_.

The three of them, Chris, Victor, and the Other Yuri, are on the podium now, and Victor says something to Katsuki. The conceited shithead’s probably saying something about himself, as if _that’s_ going to make the name-stealer feel better. Ugh.

Everyone around them claps and cheers--come on, as if anyone’s surprised. Well, maybe having the Other Yuri on the podium is a surprise, but they’re going to have to get used to having a Yuri up there soon enough.

Victor kisses his medal--gross, as if anyone wants to see that old man kissing anything--and Katsuki watches him intently. They’re too far away for Yuri to make out the expression on Katsuki’s face, but he knows what kind of face he’d be making if he had to look up at Victor above him on the podium, so he can just imagine how the guy is feeling right now. God, Yuri’s never going to let that happen to him. He’ll kick Victor’s ass before he has to stand below him.

He’s just settling into a nice daydream about doing exactly that when the noise of the crowd suddenly crescendos. What’s happening? Is Katsuki pushing Victor off the podium and taking his medal? Ha, maybe he is worthy of the name.

Yuri looks up, and no. NO. That shitty name-stealer has his hand on Victor’s neck, hauling him down to him, and is _kissing_ him. What the fuck. What the ACTUAL fuck.

Mila jabs him in the side. “Yuri Two! Are you watching this? Victor! Get it!” she yells.

“What the shit is this!” Yuri shouts back. 

They’re seriously still kissing. Victor is _kissing_ some shitty knockoff Yuri on the podium at the GPF. What is this bullshit?

No. No, fuck these two. Neither of them deserves to be up there. Just fucking wait for next season--Yuri’s going to make his senior debut, and he’s going to fucking _chase these assholes down_ and bury them under the ice. He even made Victor promise to choreograph his debut--bet that shithead never thought Yuri was going to use that program to _fucking slaughter him_.

Oh, next season can’t come soon enough.


End file.
